


Find Me In The Light

by allmystars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternating Timeline, Angst, Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Bittersweet Ending, Cancer, Castiel Has Mental Health Issues (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, DCBB 2019, Dean/Cas Big Bang (Supernatural), Dramatic Castiel (Supernatural), Drinking, Emotionally Repressed Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff, Ghosts, Grumpy Castiel, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, M/M, Musician Dean, Sharing Clothes, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Switch Dean/Castiel, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, long lost brother, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 89,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: Castiel is fine with his life. Really, he is. He’s content with the locals and his prying, if well-meaning, business partner and brother. Everything is just... fine. That’s how he likes it—plain and uneventful.Until Gabriel hires Dean Winchester to work at the cafe and, suddenly, Castiel's carefully crafted isolation is broken apart like the waves that stole his mother from him, and Castiel hates him for it.He hates Dean’s attitude—hates his car and his stupidly pretty face with that permanent smirk. He just... hates Dean Winchester.Until he doesn’t.Until, somehow, Dean manages to weasel his way into Castiel’s heart and take up permanent residence there. Then Castiel isn’t fine—he’s far from it, actually. He’s great—wonderful and perfect and happy.But things change—nothing is ever-present—and this loss might kill him. It might just tear Castiel apart. After all, how do you lose something you’ve been searching for your whole life, and survive it? How do you do that?Castiel doesn’t think he can.This is a story about coming home. About love, loss, and what it truly means to find shelter in a storm.





	1. A Terrible Experience

**Author's Note:**

> This story was so so so much fun to write! Like, I'd be driving to work, or doing the dishes, or just doing ANYTHING and be thinking about this story because it was just SO FUN! Not what I had originally planned on writing, but the other one was just too big of a project for this year. *Sigh* maybe next year! 
> 
> To my artist partner, you are so wonderfully talented, it's insane! It's been a pleasure working with you [romachebella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romachebella)! You can find their art embedded in the story, mostly at the ends of certain chapters! 
> 
> Also, a HUGE thank you to both my beta readers, Mrs. Hays and theirprofoundbond! You're both awesome and made this story what it is, so thank you times a million!
> 
> Lastly, this story contains content that might be disturbing, or that some might not want to read about. This information can be considered a spoiler but, should you choose to, you can find more information in the end-notes.

_"Give unto me_

_Just this one, simple thing:_

_What is it that I must do_

_To feel the world again_

_In a way that doesn't hurt?"_

_\- Anonymous_

**Time After: 2 weeks**

_ Bright... so bright—it’s too bright. _

Castiel fights to open his eyes despite the ache in his retinas. His head pounds, feeling like it’s filled to bursting with cotton balls. He can feel them squish up against his brain and he tries to focus on anything but that. He tries to _ focus_, period. Everything is a whirling blur around him. He thinks someone brought food, but the smell turns his stomach. He rolls away—he _ thinks _he rolls away—but the pungent smell remains. 

Everything is too bright. Where is he? _ Who _is he? Has he always been here? He doesn’t think so, but how could he know for sure?

There’s nothing but cotton balls when he looks inside his head. Squishy and dense and soggy with whatever he’s drowning in. He tries to think of his body, but that’s numb, too. Everything is numb—_everything_.

He tells himself to move—to sit up and look around—but his body doesn’t listen. _I’m too heavy_, it says. _Too tired._

He’s so _ tired_. 

**Time Left: 7 months, 1 day**

Castiel squints through the blinding sunlight that streams through the wall of windows as he smiles at the small crowd gathered on the patio outside the café doors. 

As he does every morning that he opens, he unlocks the doors and lets them in, greeting everyone by name before making his way through the twenty or so tables with a tray of mugs balanced on one hand and a coffee pot in the other, handing them out to everyone who asks.

Then for the announcements. Castiel hates doing them, but Gabriel insists, and the townies love hearing what’s going on with him, so he does it. 

It's been a little while since Castiel has worked the opening shift, but Hannah and Charlie deserve the morning off, especially since they've been short-staffed for a while, and Gabriel reasons that the entire town watched them grow up—and practically raised them when their mom died, and dad left—so their curiosity about Castiel’s life is warranted. 

Despite the size of the island, the number of locals just barely reaches five hundred people, all of whom Castiel has known since he can remember, and, despite the fact that not many of them liked his father, and barely tolerated his mother, they took him and his brother in, putting them through school and helping them out whenever they needed.

He pulls out a stool at the little bar and stares out at the café he and Gabriel built from the ground up, taking it all in before addressing the ten or so people waiting patiently for him to speak. 

The rustic beach-house design, with worn hardwood floors and wooden tables painted with stains of blue and white, were Castiel’s idea. He loves the open rafters, ample skylights, and relaxed atmosphere they’ve created—loves everything about this place—and the tourists love it, too. There’s something about the_ island paradise _ feel that draws them to the farthest corner of the island’s cliffs to his little café, and Castiel can’t say he doesn’t love the business. The fact that it really _ is _an island paradise, just off the Florida coast, doesn’t hurt either.

“Good morning,” he says and smiles as he gets responses with varying levels of enthusiasm. “Today on special we have a tuna-melt on rye, with a salad of your choice, though I recommend the fig and ginger salad—new to the menu. We have lemon-cranberry-poppy seed muffins this morning—also new to the menu, so you’re all guinea pigs should you choose to be.” They chuckle at that and Castiel continues, “Gabriel has also insisted on something new, coffee-wise, so if you’re open to changing things up a little, we have hazelnut coffee.”

“It’s pretty great, actually,” Gabriel adds as he pushes through the kitchen doors, winking at their customers as Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Other than that, it’s pretty much the same,” he says with a shrug, before adjusting his brand-new, cornflower blue apron with its little whitecaps underlining his name. He flicks off a bit of flour and glances up at old Mrs. Sunder. “We got new aprons, too.”

She lets out a whoop and he grins at the old biddy, sliding off the stool and clapping his hands.

“And, before you ask,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Pamela Barnes, the town psychologist, and center of all _ non-confidential _ gossip. “I’m still excessively single and don’t see that changing anytime soon.” He winks at her as she sighs, her shoulders slumping as they do every time he makes this announcement. “Also, we’re still hiring.” He rounds the counter and starts placing muffins on plates, knowing they’ll all want to try one.

“Actually,” Gabriel says and Castiel’s head whips around. “The new guy starts today.” Gabriel shrugs, sipping his stupid coffee and refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes as he stares out into the café.

He glares hard at the side of Gabriel’s head, gritting his teeth as he loads plates onto his arms. “_What_?” he grates out. Gabe _ always _does this and, frankly, Castiel’s getting really fucking tired of it.

“Oh, don’t get all pissy about it, Cassie. What’s done is done.” He follows Castiel as he hands out muffins, refilling empty coffee mugs for those who ask and smiling that stupid smile. “And it won’t be _ un_done.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “The hell it won’t,” he mumbles, handing out the last muffin and heading back to the safety of the kitchen where he can yell at his brother properly, without prying eyes and ears. 

He turns on him as soon as the doors close. “You hired someone without even _ telling _me?”

Gabriel wanders around the worktop, stopping only to scoop up a cookie from the cooling racks before continuing on to the back door and out to the parking lot. Castiel follows close behind, making sure to close the door as he steps through. “I _ did _tell you. I told you five minutes ago.”

“You should’ve told me _ before _you hired him! I’m the one who’ll have to work with them, so I should get the final say!” he seethes, pacing back and forth in the parking lot as Gabriel leans against the wall and eats his cookie.

“Yeah, okay, fine. You’re right; I should’ve told you, but you’re not firing this guy.” Gabriel’s eyes follow Castiel as he paces, looking completely relaxed, his legs crossed in front of him at the ankles and his arms over his chest. Castiel snorts and stops to glare at him. “I’m serious, Cassie,” Gabriel says. “This guy needs a job and we need an employee. He just moved here, okay? He needs some friends and someone to give him a chance.” 

Castiel tries to stay mad, but, eventually, his shoulders slump and all the air he’d been holding in whooshes out. He deflates on the spot, dropping his hands to his hips and tipping his head to the sky, closing his eyes. 

“_ Fine_,” Castiel relents, as he always does. Gabriel smirks as he raises the half-eaten cookie to his mouth. As Castiel passes him to head back into the kitchen, he snatches it away, his own smirk pulling at his lips as Gabriel’s squawk carries through the door. He sinks his teeth into the soft, double-chocolate cookie, moaning in delight. _ Damn, he’s good at what he does. _

Castiel’s just cashing out the last of the lunchtime rush when Gabriel bursts through the kitchen doors. He doesn’t look up as he bags Anna Milton’s turkey and cucumber wrap—the same thing she orders every day after making the thirty-minute hike to his cliffside café—before handing it over with a smile and doing his best to ignore how her eyes shine flirtatiously.

“Castiel, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Gabriel says, standing at his elbow and watching over his shoulder as he rings up Ellen Harvelle’s lunch. 

“Just a minute,” he murmurs, smiling at Ellen as he takes her money and counts out her change. 

Gabriel turns away from him to speak, but Castiel is too busy with the last few customers to turn with him. “This is my baby brother, Castiel. He’s who you’ll be working with day to day. I’m not here often but he’s kind of a workaholic so he’s here all the time. You’ll go to him for all scheduling concerns or any questions you have in general.” 

With a final wave to Ellen, Castiel turns to face his new employee, already tired of this meet and greet. 

He has to consciously stop his eyes from popping out of his head when they land on the man standing with Gabriel. His eyes are the most vivid green Castiel has ever seen, and his freckled face is tanned and smooth. His hair is short and dirty blonde—bleached by the sun, he’d assume. He’s only a little taller than Castiel and just as broad. Simply put, he’s beautiful. 

Gabriel’s talking, but Castiel hasn’t heard a word he’s said. “Cassie? Cas!” Castiel jumps and reaches a hand out to his new employee, who slips his own out of his pocket and takes Castiel’s in his. They’re warm, if a little rough. Nice hands—_strong _hands. 

“Castiel,” he says to the beautiful man, giving him a small, professional smile. At least, he hopes it’s professional, but it might come off as more pained, than anything.

The man smirks and lets go of Castiel’s hand. “Dean—Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

“Right!” Gabriel claps his hands and grins at them both. “My wife’s waiting for me on the mainland, so I need to get going. You can take care of the rest of the tour?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow at Castiel and he rolls his eyes.

“Yes. I can give it better than you, asshole. I’ll see you in a few weeks for the order.” He pulls him into a hug before pushing him away, getting Gabriel’s middle finger flashed at him for his efforts.

Then he and Dean are alone.

They stand there for a moment, avoiding eye contact until Castiel manages to pull himself together enough to actually show Dean the ropes. 

“Um… okay, so I guess I’ll show you how to use the cash register.” Castiel waves Dean over. He follows eagerly, standing close enough to look over Castiel's shoulder and watch what he does. Dean’s scent wafts over him, soaking into his senses like the sweetest drug. It’s intoxicating, and Castiel has to force himself to breathe steadily through his mouth just to get out the words he needs to say.

“First thing you’re going to do is type in the number, like this,” Castiel types in a random number. “When you’ve done that, press this button and it’ll put the decimal in the right place, see?” He looks over his shoulder to see if Dean’s watching. Bad idea. 

Dean’s closer than he thought, his chest almost brushing Castiel’s back as he leans in, glancing at the register before his eyes flick over to Castiel’s. “I think so, yeah.”

Castiel licks his lips, his eyes dropping to Dean’s mouth for half a second before he shakes himself out of it and turns back around. “Do that for every item and press the ‘subtotal’ button when you’re done. You can type in the amount they give you, then press this button and it’ll calculate the change. Got it?” 

“Yes,” Dean says, and Castiel has to fight back a shiver as Dean’s breath brushes across his neck. He flushes, his skin heating as he shifts away from the warm body behind him. _ So much for trying to be professional_. 

“Good,” he breathes. “If you want to cancel a transaction, press ‘subtotal’ then ‘void’ to get rid of the charge. Otherwise, you’ll mess up the count at the end of the day.” Castiel demonstrates by clearing the charge he had just put through. When he’s done, he spins around to step out of the way, in so much of a hurry to let Dean show him what he’s gleaned, he forgets that Dean’s _ right _behind him. 

He bumps into him, blushing hotly as he stumbles back, muttering an apology before sliding past Dean so he can get at the register. He thinks he catches a smirk on Dean’s face, but he doesn’t stop to check as he speaks. “Now, you try,” he says, gesturing at the register and taking a moment to collect himself as Dean stares at all the buttons. 

He watches as Dean’s fingers hover over the keys, hesitant for a moment before he dives right in, doing everything Castiel showed him, exactly as he showed him. Castiel clears his throat. “So, Dean. Did you work in customer service before coming here?” Castiel eyes him carefully, watching every minute shift of his body as Dean pauses, his back going up, and looks at Castiel from the corner of his eye.

Dean shrugs after a moment. “Of sorts,” is all he says and Castiel stamps down the annoyance bubbling up inside him.

“Okay... do you have any kind of baking experience? Do you know proper kitchen protocols?” He tips his head to the side, squinting as Dean steps away from the register. 

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘P’ sound with another small shrug. He pauses, narrowing his eyes as he thinks, before wagging a finger in the air. “Well, actually, no. No, I _ have _cooked before. Once. It was a terrible experience.”

Castiel’s jaw drops as Dean slides past him, making his way out into the rest of the café. What? Why the hell would he get a job in a _ café_, of all places, if he doesn’t like to cook? Castiel spins around to watch Dean take in the storm windows and little decorations sitting on their sills, varying from chipped seashells that Castiel collected from the beach outside his house, to dusty hula girl bobbleheads that sway in the breeze.

“Do you have any work experience _at all_?” At this point, Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if this was just one of Gabriel’s _pranks_, done only for the purpose of getting Castiel to _loosen up_, as Gabriel would say, but only managing to piss him off.

Dean spins around from where he’s standing at the wall of windows, gazing out at the cliffs beyond, and gives Castiel a look like he thinks he’s stupid. “Of course, I do.” That’s it. No elaboration or clarification, just... _of course_.

Castiel takes a deep, calming breath and closes his eyes as his annoyance peaks. He has to remind himself of Gabriel’s words—that Castiel can’t fire Dean—because he knows what will happen if he does: Gabriel will make his life a living hell.

“So, what you’re saying is you have _no _experience, no _interest_, and no qualifications. Do you have _anything _that will make you an asset to the team?”

“Oh, I have plenty of _ ass_ets,” he says, grinning mischievously as Castiel glares. This isn’t going as planned—not at _ all_. 

Instead of dignifying that with a response, Castiel makes his way out from behind the counter and into the seating area, pushing in a few chairs and shifting a couple tables as Dean looks on. They don’t speak for a while, but Castiel can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he moves things around unnecessarily, before heading out to the patio without so much as a “_follow me._”

“Most of your job will be washing dishes and bussing tables until you get the hang of actual _ cooking_, but I don’t suspect that will be anytime soon, what with your lack of experience and our expectations for a certain level of quality.” Castiel doesn’t look at Dean when he delivers the dig, but he knows when it hits its mark by the deep grunt Dean makes.

“Whatever you say, boss-man,” Dean murmurs as his shoulder brushes Castiel’s, sending a shiver racing through his veins. His breath hitches as he shifts away, trying his hardest to ignore the heat radiating off of Dean, and focusing, instead, on the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks far below. Before he can shake off the low hum of awareness under his skin, Dean is moving away. Was that...Is Dean _ laughing _ at him? _ It’s probably the wind_, Castiel thinks, even though he knows it’s not true. 

_Christ_, working with Dean might just kill him.

Over the next few hours, Castiel shows Dean everything he needs to know and probably a bunch that not even _ Castiel _ needs to know, but it’s all covered by the time they close up for the night. Dean doesn’t talk much, he discovers, and when he does, there’s a hint of teasing in his voice. Not enough for Castiel to be certain it’s there, but enough for him to _ wonder_.

It begins to irritate him, the longer he’s around Dean, and by the time he locks the back door—the sun hanging low over the ocean and a warm breeze blowing in the silent night air as cicadas buzz incessantly in the treetops—Castiel’s mood has soured to the point that he’s silently brooding. He hums in response to anything Dean says, answering his questions in as few words as possible. He knows Dean can tell, but Dean doesn’t say anything. His smirk grows, though, and if Castiel were to look at him at all, he’s sure he’d find his fucking _ beautiful _ green eyes shining with laughter.

“You put your email on the application, right?” He glances sideways at Dean, who leans heavily against the outside wall.

“Don’t have one,” he shrugs, and Castiel’s head snaps in his direction. “I’ve never had a computer.” Another shrug.

“You can use email on your phone, you know.” Castiel raises an eyebrow. Who the hell doesn’t have an _email_? “Anyway, you’ll need to make one. That’s the only way we send out the schedule.”

Castiel turns away, the conversation closed in his mind. “Will you be showing me how to do that, too?” The words come out so quietly that Castiel is sure he wasn’t meant to hear them, but he does anyway.

“Excuse me?” he says, turning to face Dean, who stands beside a big, black beast of a car. Of course, his fucking _ car _is beautiful, too.

“Nothing…it’s nothing.” He grins again and opens the door, sliding in smoothly before rolling down the window and turning her over. The car rumbles where it sits, and Castiel swears he feels the vibration in his bones. “I’ll see you ’round, Cas.”

Castiel bristles at the nickname, but doesn’t get the chance to put Dean in his place before he’s shooting Castiel one last grin and roaring off, leaving Castiel in the dust. 

He scowls, already knowing that Dean Winchester is, by far, the most _ infuriating _person he’s ever met in his life.


	2. Vodka-Crans and Whiskey Neat

**Time After: 2 weeks, 4 days**

He’s been awake for hours—since before the sun came up, at least. He’s not sure if he ever slept, actually. Everything is cloudy and his mind drifts from one thought to another, never sticking for too long or remembering the past thought once it’s gone. He’s not sure if he sleeps or if he’s ever really awake at all.

He tries to focus on what he knows about himself—what they’ve told him—but every time he tries, his mind wanders somewhere else. To a beach during a rainstorm or a church at high noon—never stopping to think too long about what they might mean to him.

He tries again, going over what they told him yesterday. _ Yesterday? _ He’s not sure of that, either. _ My name is Castiel Novak. I’m thirty-two years old. My birthday is… is September eighteenth. My brother… my brother is… is…_

That’s it. 

That’s all he remembers of what they told him. He knows there’s more—obviously, there’s more—but he doesn’t think he can handle knowing right now. He doesn’t know what he can handle, really. He just _ doesn’t know_.

When the sun shines through the barred window, hitting the door straight on, a woman comes into his room, followed by a young man. Castiel thinks he might be carrying food, but he doesn’t move his eyes to check. He doesn’t really care, honestly—he’s not hungry.

“Castiel? It’s Pamela—Dr. Barnes—do you remember me?” He doesn’t, but he makes no indication, either way, continuing to stare at the blank wall in front of him. “I’m going to ask you some questions, okay? Will you answer them for me?” Again, he doesn’t answer, and she moves on. “Would you like some food?”

He closes his eyes as a soft melody takes him over.

“Okay, well, we’ll leave it here if you get hungry…” Her voice trails off but he’s not sure if it’s because she stops talking or if the music is drowning her out as it echoes in his ears, rattling around in his head, but never escaping to be heard by the outside world. He prefers the soft melody, so he doesn’t try to focus on her voice.

The song isn’t familiar, though something deep inside him tells him it should be. This song is important—he knows that much—but he doesn’t know _ why_.

**Time Left: 6 months, 1 week, 5 days**

“Hey, Cas! I told you I can’t work next Wednesday, remember?” Dean shouts from across the kitchen as soon as he walks through the door. Castiel rolls his eyes as annoyance prickles inside him, growing steadily until he can’t look at Dean for fear of slapping his stupidly pretty face.

“Yes, and _ I _said I need you here anyway.” He heads over to the sink to wash his hands and start prepping the dough for tomorrow’s bread, doing his best to ignore Dean as he hovers just a little too close for comfort.

“I can’t work. I have to get my stuff from the mainland at noon, so unless I can be gone for a few hours, I won’t be here.” Dean doesn’t move away, and Castiel can practically feel the annoyance radiating off of him as he mixes the ingredients in a bowl. 

As much as he wants to just tell Dean _no_, he knows that’s unreasonable. It’s not like Wednesday is their busiest day, anyway, but for some reason, he just loves pissing Dean off. “Three hours. If you’re not back in that time, don’t bother coming back. Now get out of my kitchen.”

Dean huffs and grumbles under his breath what sounds like a _ thank you—_but could’ve been a _ fuck you—_as he pushes through the swinging doors. Castiel grins anyway, happy to be a menace.

**Time Left: 6 months, 1 week, 2 days**

“High Tide Café, Castiel speaking,” Castiel answers the phone, holding it between his ear and shoulder as he rings up a customer. Dean is busy clearing tables so it’s up to him to deal with taking calls, especially since he can answer questions better than Dean any day. 

“Cassie!” Gabriel shouts down the line and Castiel groans, tipping his head back to look at the rafters. 

“What?” he growls, filling a coffee filter with the new dark roast and starting a new pot as Dean shoves his way through the kitchen doors with a bin full of dirty dishes. Castiel would never admit it out loud, but Dean _ is _a good worker and he’s actually kind of glad Gabriel hired him on—or he would be if Dean weren’t such an asshole.

“Friday night. Karaoke. Make it happen.” 

“What? No! I’m taking Friday off,” he says as he pauses in cleaning up a spot of cream Dean spilled on the counter—_what a mess_, he thinks as he shakes his head, annoyance flaring in his chest. “Why couldn’t you’ve just texted me?”

“’Cause I knew you’d ignore me.” True. “Seriously, Cassie. I don’t care who you get to run it, but I want it to happen. Hannah’s good—get her to work. Charlie, too.” There’s a crash from the other end of the line. “Shit, gotta go! Make this happen.” Then he’s gone and Castiel is left fuming with the phone still pressed to his ear.

“Hey, Cas, you mind if I take my lunch?” 

“What?” he snaps, turning off the handheld and shoving it back on the charger. He turns to glare at Dean, who raises an eyebrow.

“My lunch? Am I good to take it now?” 

Castiel stares at him for a minute, trying to get his temper under control before finally turning back to the spilled cream and wiping up the residue with a wet cloth to keep the counter from getting sticky. “Yeah, whatever. Just make sure you change the garbage when you’re done and let Hannah know you’re going. I need to make more bread.” With that, he pushes through the swinging doors into the back, pausing for a moment to gather himself before heading for the flour bin in the back corner.

When Castiel turns back around, Dean is pushing through the doors. “What?” Castiel snaps and Dean stumbles back a step. He scowls at Castiel before heading for his locker.

“Just grabbing my lunch.” 

Castiel sighs, feeling stupid for his outburst because, _of course_, Dean needs to grab his lunch. He rubs his hands down his face, trying to shake off the residual irritation before he makes an even bigger ass of himself.

He starts mixing the dough, doing his best to ignore the turning in his stomach as Dean walks by him. When he hears the doors swing shut again, his shoulders slump and he braces his arms on the worktop, hanging his head between them.

“Cas?”

He jumps at the sound of Dean’s voice, his head snapping up to glare at him. Dean’s wide eyes stare back, full of concern and uncertainty. Castiel sighs, “Yes?”

“You good?”

He lets out a bark of laughter and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m… I’m good. Gabe’s just being Gabe.” He shrugs, and Dean offers him a small smile before backing through the doors. Oddly enough, it has Castiel’s mood lightening just a little.

“Where do you think he moved from?” Lisa Braeden asks as Castiel bites into his pastrami and swiss sandwich, trying his hardest to ignore her and Jo as they giggle over Dean. 

“The South, definitely. You don’t get charm like that from anywhere but the South,” Jo answers, her eyes twinkling as she peers over at Dean, who’s bent over a table, the dish bin tucked under one arm, as he reaches for one last plate.

Castiel averts his eyes from Dean’s perfect ass. He can’t look at him like that—he’s Dean’s _boss_. There’s _some_ kind of sexual harassment law attached to checking out one’s employees, he’s sure.

“What’s he like?” Lisa asks, and Castiel looks up after a lengthy pause, realizing that her question was directed at him when she raises an eyebrow.

He clears his throat and shrugs. “Annoying,” he mutters, but she’s no longer listening.

“Oh, my God! He’s looking at me! Don’t look, don’t look!” Lisa squeals, looking over at Dean as he walks back to the kitchen. Castiel glances up and meets Dean’s eyes, catching the little smirk and the wink he shoots him before turning away. He rolls his eyes and takes another bite of his sandwich, doing his best to block out their conversation. 

Can’t a guy enjoy his lunch in _ peace_?

**Time Left: 6 months, 1 week**

Castiel told himself he wasn’t going to go. He was going to stay home and do payroll, or catch up on his reading, or do a little cleaning, or _ something_. But here he is, standing just inside the back door of his café on fucking _ karaoke _night because he can’t just let his employees take care of it.

He’s not going to work—he won’t go that far—he’ll just observe and step in if he thinks they need him. He _ definitely _won’t be doing any karaoke, though.

The only person in the kitchen with Castiel is Hannah, who’s busy making trays of appetizers while Charlie serves at the bar. He leans against the closed door for a moment before adjusting his shirt and heading for the swinging doors. 

On the other side are all the reasons Castiel _hates_ karaoke: the music is loud, the singing is off-key, and the performances are over-enthusiastic. He sighs, watching for a moment as Aaron Bass belts out the lyrics to some old song that Castiel has never known the name of, before stepping up beside Charlie to pour himself a drink.

“Hey! Thought you were staying home tonight?” Charlie bumps him with her elbow as she fills three shot glasses with tequila. “You know we’ve got this, right? You don’t have to be here.”

“I’m _ not _here. Just grabbing a drink and finding a place to sit,” he counters, mixing himself a vodka-cranberry and shooting Charlie a smile. She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as she hands over the shots and takes money from the trio of giggling ladies.

He sips from the tiny straw as he weaves through the crowd, making his way out onto the patio through the space where sliding glass walls usually are but have been opened up to create more room. Castiel had originally hated the idea—the specialty walls were expensive and would need to be cleaned all the time. Not to mention the fact that he thought they’d be ugly—but Gabriel had talked him into it, telling him he’d pay for it all and that it’d look _ nice_. 

And they _ did _look nice—not that he’d ever admit it to his brother.

He finds a table at the edge of the patio, setting his drink down and peeling off his jacket. With summer coming, the weather is getting warmer and warmer by the day—the nights have lost their chill and it won’t be too long before the tourists start opening their beach houses for the season.

Though the island isn’t overly _large_, it’s a huge tourist attraction. Something about the island draws people in, keeping them coming back year after year to their _too extravagant_,_ too expensive_ beach houses tucked in amongst the rundown, weather-beaten homes of the locals. The shoreline is filled with them—empty houses with sand built up in the corners until come summer, someone bothers to sweep them out—and they stick out like a sore thumb. 

He and Gabriel used to break into the yards in the off-season—they always had the nicest pools or biggest playsets, despite the fact that there were never any children to use them—and they’d play for hours and hours. He would always wonder about the others—the ones the playsets were out there for—about where they were, or what they were doing, or if they even remembered his little island town. Did it ever feel like home to them, too? Or is it just one of many homes? Castiel had never understood it, really—how someone could live everywhere, but nowhere at all—although, he’s only ever lived _here_, so maybe it would be different if he could actually _leave_.

The tourists’ detachment to his island used to bother him more, but he’s come to terms with it, and now, he sees them as nothing more than customers who need their drinks filled or want that last slice of honey loaf he’d been hoping to keep for himself. 

He smiles at all the people milling about as he sips his drink—dancing and laughing and drinking as the night carries on. He’s not sure how many drinks he’s had—Charlie just keeps bringing him more, but by the time he spots Dean across the way, he’s _ very _drunk.

His easy smile morphs into an instant scowl when he sees Anna hanging off of him, her arms wrapped around his neck and his hand resting on her waist. They’re dancing, swaying erratically in their drunkenness to the off-key singing. 

Castiel watches them for a while, growing more and more annoyed at the sick twist in his gut as they get closer and closer to one another, their chests brushing. Then Dean glances up and meets Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s grin is cocky when he finds Castiel watching him, and it does nothing to calm the riot inside Castiel as he sips the last of his drink.

He’s about to get up to get another when a body falls into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck and lips pressing hard against his own. He’s so shocked for a moment that he doesn’t move, but then the man pulls away and Castiel smiles up at Balthazar, glad for the distraction from the perpetually smirking asshole across the patio.

He glances up to find Dean’s face in a scowl to match the one Castiel had been wearing before. 

“Cassie, dear! It’s been so long. How long has it been? A year? Two?” Balthazar’s bright, drunken eyes shine down at him but Castiel doesn’t bother to answer him, cupping his face in his hands and pulling him in. Their kiss is slow and sloppy—not _bad_, per se, but nothing compared to what he expects to feel. There’s no heat in it like there usually is, and he’s so startled by it that he pulls back, staring dazedly at Balthazar and taking him in for the first time in a long time. 

He’s as good-looking as ever—his blue eyes are still striking and, even drunk, he manages to project a refined sort of beauty—but he’s got nothing on Dean.

Castiel hates that the thought even occurs to him, but now that he’s thought it, his eyes wander over to where Dean is now sitting at a table with a drink in his hand, glowering down at the polished wood. 

He’d be lying if he said Dean’s sour mood doesn’t make him feel like crap, and, despite the fact that Dean’s a dick, he’s still a good person—good with the customers in a way Castiel has never been, and they practically raised him. 

The townies _adore _Dean, taken with his smile and striking green eyes—not to mention his humor. Dean is funny and smart and kind. He’s all those things to everyone _except _Castiel, and he wants to know _why_.

“I, um… I’m gonna go get another drink. You want anything?” He shifts Balthazar off his lap and stands, waiting patiently for his order.

“Shirley Temple, if you don’t mind.” He crosses one leg over the other and leans back, smiling up at Castiel in a way that should have him feeling _ something_, but it doesn’t, and Castiel turns away. 

Weaving through the crowd around the bar, he slips in behind, careful to keep out of Charlie’s way as he mixes a Shirley Temple and another vodka-cranberry for himself. When he glances up from the two drinks in front of him, his eyes catch on Dean’s, who is waiting patiently for Charlie’s attention.

Castiel turns away to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, pouring two fingers into a glass and handing it across the bar to Dean with a small smile. He doesn’t know why he does it, but the next words out of Dean’s mouth make him wish he hadn’t. 

“That’s a pretty girly-ass drink for your _boyfriend_,” he sneers, then turns away without so much as a thank you and now Castiel is _livid_. He was just trying to be _nice_, so what the _fuck _is Dean’s problem? 

Without even really thinking about it, he tosses back his drink and returns to his table, dropping off Balthazar’s drink with a hasty, “I gotta go,” before making a beeline for Dean, who’s back at his table chatting up Lisa this time.

“Excuse me, Lisa.” He smiles politely at her while grabbing Dean by the arm and jerking him to his feet. “I need to borrow Dean for a minute.”

“Cas! What the hell—” he starts, but Castiel cuts him off with a dark look, dragging him through the crowd and into the kitchen, but he doesn’t stop there, pushing through the back door and into the parking lot.

“What the _ hell _ is your problem, Dean?” he shouts, whirling around to glare at his startled face. “I was being _ nice—_I have been _ nothing _ but nice to you and all you do is make fun of me and undermine my authority as your _ boss _ at every turn, so, please, tell me _ exactly _what your problem is—”

Then his back hits the wall, air rushing from his lungs, and Dean’s mouth is on his, their bodies touching in every possible way and Castiel is _ alive _with feeling. Alive in a way he’s never been before, his entire body singing with so much energy that he dives into the kiss, his hands balling in Dean’s shirt as Dean’s grab onto his hair, tilting Castiel’s head back and kissing him harder—deeper.

Heat races through his veins and his alcohol-soaked brain clears in that moment, feeling every sensation so deeply that it steals his breath. Dean is a _ really _good kisser and Castiel forces himself not to think about the reasons why. He just kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until he doesn’t think he can possibly continue—his lips swollen and tender—then he kisses him some more, his hands roaming over every part of Dean he can reach.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is wrong, but he just doesn’t care because Dean is nibbling on his bottom lip and trailing kisses along his jaw. He bites and licks his way down Castiel’s neck, sucking bruises there that he probably shouldn’t, but he doesn’t even think to stop him as his knees tremble, threatening to give out as pleasure rockets to his core.

Dean’s hands travel lower, sliding under Castiel’s shirt and feeling his fevered skin as Castiel grips Dean’s shoulders, holding himself up in the only way he can. His heart pounds against his rib cage and every breath comes faster and faster as Dean just keeps going _ lower_. 

“Dean…” he moans, tipping his head back against the wall as Dean’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, managing to undo the first few and trailing kisses as low as he can. Castiel needs… he just… he needs—

A door slams and they both jump, freezing on the spot when they realize where they are. Castiel glances around but no one’s there and he sighs in relief. Dean drops his forehead to Castiel’s chest, his shoulders heaving with every breath as Castiel lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Dean lifts his head after a moment, his lust-filled eyes meeting Castiel’s and he knows this isn’t finished—it’s _ far _from finished.

“Your place?” Dean asks, his breaths still a little shaky when he speaks.

“My place,” Castiel agrees before pulling Dean in for one more kiss.


	3. Fuck Me Up

**Time After: 2 weeks, 6 days**

_ Everything is dark, and everything hurts. Castiel tries to get up but something is sitting on his chest, trapping him in the small space. He thinks he might be in a cave, covered over by rocks and pinned beneath one. _

_Everything _hurts_._ _“Help,” he calls, but his voice is rough and quiet—too quiet for even his own ears to hear clearly. “_Help_!” he calls again, this time a little louder. He can hear voices above him, talking and laughing, and he tries to scream at them—anything to let _someone _know he’s trapped down here. _

_ Blood pounds in his ears and something wet and warm trickles over his forehead. Whatever is pressing down on his chest cuts off his air and he’s gasping for every breath. Spikes of pain radiate through him as he tries to yell louder. The voices are getting clearer—coming closer—and he can make out two or three distinct people. _

_ “S-someone help! Help!” Tears leak from his eyes and his heart rate doubles, crashing against his ribs as terror floods him. He’s going to die down here—he knows he will. _

_ “Do you hear that?” The feet stop moving right above him, but Castiel’s voice is suddenly frozen. All the air is sucked from his lungs and he can’t _ speak. _ He can’t yell or scream or call for help. He tries but… nothing. _

_ “Probably just the wind.” They start moving again, their feet carrying them farther and farther away from where Castiel is trapped. _

_ No… no, no, no. “No! Come back!” he tries to shout, but the words barely squeak past his tight throat as helpless tears leak from his eyes. _

_ He starts to struggle, pulling at his trapped arms and legs, thrashing frantically but getting nowhere as he screams. He’s going to die here—he’s going to die, and no one will even notice he’s gone… _

…The rocks turn to hands as he comes to, his eyes opening to a dark room with many faces staring down at him. Hands on every limb, _ holding him down_. Fresh terror rushes through him and he thrashes harder, inhuman sounds tumbling from him as he realizes it was _ them_—these people are holding him down and _ killing _him. 

Pain radiates through his limbs, his muscles tearing as he screams his agony, his heart crashing against his rib cage with every beat. He gets one arm free and manages to get in a good hit to one of the faces, but he’s grabbed again, held down harder this time.

Something sharp sticks his arm and his muscles weaken, everything getting heavy again as he cries, terrified that this is when they’ll kill him—while he’s weak and paralyzed. He tries to fight it off, but his tear-filled eyes are too heavy to keep open and, eventually, all he can manage are little whimpers before he drops off into nothing.

**Time Left: 6 months, 1 week**

Castiel’s back hits the wall hard, but he barely feels it—even after the slip he had on the walk over, probably bruising his tailbone—as hands roam over him, up under his shirt and down his back. He’s gasping, pulling at Dean’s hair as he leads him inside, stumbling through the entrance and bumping into things, but _ refusing _to pull away for even a second.

Dean doesn’t try to pull away from him either, even when he steps on Castiel’s toes and bangs his elbow on the wall. He just keeps going, practically holding Castiel up as his knees shake and his head spins from the overwhelming _ pleasure _pulsing through his veins.

Castiel grunts when his back hits the doorframe and he stops Dean for a moment, startling them both when he jumps up, wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and toeing off his shoes in the same moment. Dean grabs fast, though, his hands gripping Castiel’s thighs tight as he grinds his hips _just right _and Castiel is moaning as pleasure arcs through him, shooting straight down his spine and into his groin.

Pinning him against the wall with his hips, Dean pulls Castiel’s shirt up over his head, tossing it aside before diving back in to kiss him, scorching him with his lips as his tongue dives in, twisting and sucking and stealing all Castiel’s breath as he gasps for more, tearing at Dean’s shirt until they finally have to part so he can pull it off.

Castiel’s hands roam Dean’s chest, feeling the smooth planes and hard ridges of muscle before diving back into Dean’s hair, and then they’re kissing again as Dean moves away from the wall, carrying Castiel like he’s weightless before dropping him in the center of his bed. 

He lies there for a moment, just watching Dean as he moves in the dark; kicking off his shoes before stripping out of his pants and socks and crawling over Castiel, his eyes dark and predatory—full of lust as he fumbles with Castiel’s belt buckle.

“You want to do this, Cas?” Dean asks, pausing for a moment to meet Castiel’s eyes, suddenly unsure.

“Hell yeah,” Castiel breathes, scratching at the five o’clock shadow on Dean’s cheek. He rubs his thumb over Dean’s full bottom lip before guiding him down for a kiss. It’s slower this time—softer—as Dean presses every inch of his body to Castiel’s. “This changes nothing, though; I’m still your boss,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s lips, feeling his answering smile before he speaks.

“That makes this so much hotter,” Dean moans, his hands moving back between them to finish removing Castiel’s pants. 

Castiel rolls his eyes, but once his pants are off, Dean is pulling at his boxers, stripping him bare before removing his own. Then there’s nothing between them and Castiel is so worked up he’s _whimpering_. Dean’s lips find his neck and he nips and sucks his way to Castiel’s ear, pulling it into his mouth as Castiel moans deep and low in his chest, shivers racing down his spine with every roll of Dean’s hips.

Castiel’s mind whirls as he tries to get ahold of what’s happening. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this—he’s Dean’s _boss _for fuck’s sake—but he just doesn’t _care_. Not right now, anyway; not with the amount of alcohol coursing through his veins and clouding his judgment.

Dean moves down his chest, his lips parting to suck and bite little bruises as he goes lower. Castiel’s breath catches with every one, his hips rolling of their own accord when Dean’s mouth reaches his hip, his fingers following the sharp ridges of his hip bones before his tongue does the same. Castiel’s so hard he aches, wanting nothing more than to feel Dean’s hot mouth around him, to see those lips stretched wide… Dean has such a beautiful mouth.

“Dean… please,” Castiel gasps as his fingers twine in Dean’s short hair. He glances up at Castiel with that _smirk_, shooting him a wink before swallowing him down, right to the back of his throat. 

Castiel throws his head back as his mouth falls open on a breathy moan, his heels digging into the mattress as Dean’s tongue works its magic, flicking under the sensitive head and dipping into the slit as Castiel shakes with pleasure, his hands tightening in Dean’s hair and pulling a moan from him that vibrates down Castiel’s cock. 

The pleasure builds and builds until he can’t take anymore, his fingers gripping in Dean’s hair to pull him off, but he’s already moving away, sensing how close Castiel is just by the way he whimpers and squirms.

Castiel mourns the loss, but Dean’s got that fucking _ smirk _on his face again as he leans in and kisses Castiel. Just a quick, scorching kiss before he’s being flipped over. Castiel yelps when a sharp sting lands on his ass cheek and he glares at Dean over his shoulder even as his dick jerks with interest.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t like a good _ spanking_,” Dean purrs, prowling over Castiel as he leans in and grazes his teeth over the shell of Castiel’s ear. 

He rolls his eyes and turns his face away, but he doesn’t deny it because… well… he’s not _ wrong_. Dean’s lips move down his neck again and he nuzzles his nose into Castiel’s sweet spot—just below his ear. 

“Am I going to get to do anything, or do I just lie here and let you have your way with me?” Castiel asks, glancing over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow before tilting his head to give Dean better access to his neck. He takes full advantage, and Castiel can feel the grin against his pulse point before Dean answers.

“Hmm…What can I say? I’m a giver.”

“Oh, really? So is that supposed to mean I’m the taker—_fuck_!” He gasps as Dean’s hips shove forward, his thick cock grazing Castiel’s hole as he grinds into him.

“_Yes_,” he growls and Castiel would be a fucking liar if he said that wasn’t the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

“What if… what if _ I _want to be the giver,” he pants, dropping his head onto the pillow as Dean’s hips continue to roll, his knees on either side of Castiel as his chest presses down hard on his back, holding him down.

“Maybe next time. Lube? Condom?” Dean presses a soft kiss to Castiel’s shoulder, and for a moment, Castiel allows himself to imagine that there will be a next time—that there _ can _be a next time. Only for a second, he allows himself to think about it.

“Top drawer,” he answers, gesturing to the nightstand on the left side of the bed. “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

“There’ll be a next time,” Dean says, so fucking cocksure that Castiel can’t do anything but shake his head and smile, rolling his eyes even though his head is turned and Dean can’t see him. 

Castiel moans softly when a slicked-up finger circles his hole before pressing in. It’s… not painful. A lot of pressure and his rim clenches around it but it’s not _ bad._

Dean stretches him open slowly—gently—before adding another finger and scissoring them, stretching him open as he squirms beneath him. By the time Dean adds a third finger, Castiel is panting hard and writhing with every shallow thrust as Dean’s fingers brush over his sensitive prostate.

“Who knows? Maybe you won’t want to top next time? Maybe you’ll love taking it so much that you’ll _ beg _for it,” Dean purrs as he pulls his fingers out and rolls on the condom as Castiel pants into the pillow, his hips rolling impatiently.

“You’re pretty fucking cocky for someone who’s not even inside me yet—_shit_!” Castiel hisses as Dean pushes into him, all the way to the root in one sharp thrust. He’s got to stop cutting him off like that—it’s fucking annoying.

“What was that? I’m what?” He can practically _hear _Dean’s smirk, but he’s stuffed full of his cock and he just wants him to _move_. Castiel arches his back, tilting his hips up and getting his knees under him as he braces himself on his elbows.

“Just shut up and fuck me you cocky bastard,” Castiel growls, hating how much he loves the feel of Dean’s strong hands squeezing his hips. He’s not used to this: not being in control. Balthazar loves bottoming and Castiel never complains, so he’s never done _this _with anyone. But with Dean… he’d never _tell _him, but he thinks he might just love this more.

“I mean, I would,” Dean says conversationally, “but you won’t stop talking and it’d be rude to interrupt.” Castiel might actually strangle him. 

“Move now or I swear to God, I’ll throw you out as you are, butt fucking naked—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish as the air’s knocked out of his lungs. Dean’s hips thrust hard and deep, hitting his prostate and dragging over it with every painfully slow thrust.

“Wow, you’re testy when you don’t get what you want. That why you’re such an asshole to me? ’Cause you want to fuck me so bad, but you can’t ’cause you’re my _ boss_?”

Castiel opens his mouth to answer but the air is forced out of him again as Dean’s hips shoot forward, punching out a strangled moan as he scrambles for something to grab onto. He wraps his fingers around the headboard, hanging his head between his arms as Dean’s hips speed up.

He can feel the pressure building inside him, but he doesn’t dare to touch himself—not yet. Dean’s hands move from his hips, gliding over his back, one gripping his shoulder and pulling him up as the other tangles in his hair, jerking his head back and baring his neck. Castiel gasps as Dean’s cock goes deeper and he’s so full he could burst as his own dick leaks pre-come all over the sheets.

“You like it when I’m cocky. You just like my cock, don’t you? Admit it, Castiel—you’ve wanted to fuck me since day one.” Dean sinks his teeth into his neck and Castiel shouts, the pain mixing with pleasure as electricity races down his spine, liquid fire flooding his veins as his entire world shrinks down to him and Dean in this moment. He doesn’t think of anything else—not the fact that he’s Dean’s boss, or that Dean is the most irritating person on the entire _planet_—all he can think about is how Dean’s dick is so deep inside him that he’ll be feeling it for _days_, if not the entire week.

He’s drenched in sweat, Dean’s hands slipping over his skin as he tips his head back and lays it on Dean’s shoulder, turning his face into his neck to kiss his damp and salty skin. He’s beyond words, unable to form them even in his mind, but Dean just keeps talking and Castiel would be lying if he said his words weren’t doing it for him.

“You act like you hate me, but I see how you look at me. You just want my cock as deep inside of you as it’ll go, don’t you?” He thrusts hard and Castiel whimpers, his pleasure reaching new heights as Dean tightens his grip in his hair, pulling it harder. “You stare at my lips all the time and I can practically hear what you’re thinking. You just want them wrapped around your big cock, don’t you, Cas?” 

“Y-yes…” he hisses, tears welling in his eyes from the sting in his scalp, but he loves it—God, he _ loves _it. “Dean… Dean, I’m—”

“I got you, baby. I got you,” he whispers, his voice impossibly soft, even as he pounds into him. The hand that was wrapped around his chest drops down to close around Castiel’s cock, jerking fast as Dean’s teeth latch onto his neck and he sucks hard enough to leave one hell of a hickey.

Castiel claws at every part of Dean he can reach when he comes, his nails digging into Dean’s thighs as he jerks, his head falling back as a moan tumbles out of him, long and loud. Dean hisses from the sting but he’s coming too, his hips slamming hard as his cock jerks inside Castiel. 

Dean’s hips slow as Castiel leans forward, burying his face in the pillows and not caring about the mess as he tries to slow his ragged breathing. Dean follows him shortly after, the condom tossed in the trash beside Castiel’s bed.

He turns his head to look at Dean, who lies on his side, facing him with drooping eyes. “Hey,” Castiel whispers, and he doesn’t know why. Dean smiles, though, as his eyes fall shut and he pulls Castiel closer.

“Hey,” he whispers back, snuggling into his chest. Castiel lets him, grinning softly and rolling his eyes.

“A cuddler, then,” Castiel says as his eyes close, his fingers sifting through Dean’s wild hair. He’s sure his own hair isn’t much better, especially with the way Dean seemed to never let it go.

“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you.” 

Castiel chuckles softly, but he’s too exhausted to snark back, so he doesn’t. Instead, he thinks of how nice this is—how good it is to get this out of the way, so they can carry on with their work properly. This changes nothing, and Castiel doesn’t want it any other way. This won’t happen again, no matter what Dean says, and he’s okay with that. Really, he is.

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he’ll actually start to believe it.

**Time Left: 6 months, 6 days**

Castiel _ loves _his home. It’s filled almost entirely with found things, collected over generations and turned into something worth looking at. When he thinks about it, having his house built, and keeping all his old collections of “useless junk”—as Gabriel called it—are some of the best things he ever did, because he’s always surrounded by his island, so he always feels a little safer here than anywhere else.

There are seashells in glass bowls on every counter; the golden sand from Honey Beach—right outside Castiel’s front door—in tall vases beside the door; the street sign he and Gabriel uh... borrowed... from the end of the road he lives on, Sunhill Lane, screwed above the door; old sand dollars as coasters, stacked on the driftwood coffee table in his living room—even the mat at his front door is woven from dried sea kelp, and the picture frames, filled with photos almost as old as he is, were made by his mother’s hands, crafted out of palm trees and island grass. So many things... they all make his house a home.

On any other day, Castiel would tell anyone who asked that it’s his favorite place in the world to be, but right now, as the sun shines bright through his bedroom window, waking him up with a splitting headache, he hates it with everything inside him.

His stomach turns as he groans, rolling onto his side without opening his eyes and reaching for Dean, but he finds empty sheets in the space where Dean’s body should be. He sits up with a scowl, glaring at the Dean-less spot next to him, and his head pounds out its protest as he drops back down, his stomach turning for a whole different reason this time.

Everything aches—_everything_. His head, his back, his legs, his arms… his _ass_._ God, how is Dean not hungover? Where the hell is he, anyway? _Castiel drags himself up, hating the entire world and everyone in it as he shuffles to the kitchen. He rubs his eyes as he pulls all the curtains closed, for once not loving the bright rays in the morning. It’s been _years _since he’s gotten that drunk and it’ll probably be years until he does it again—if ever.

When he finds the kitchen empty, he scowls again before checking the bathroom. Nope, no Dean. He digs out some ibuprofen and takes a piss, not bothering to look in the mirror before heading back to the kitchen for some breakfast and _coffee_. God, he needs coffee _so bad _right now. 

But rifling through the cupboards for a solid five minutes comes up with nothing, and a pitiful whine escapes him as he pouts. Dammit, he’ll have to go to the café. Castiel drops his head to the counter, feeling every part of his body with every movement and remembering exactly _ why _he doesn’t make a habit of rough sex.

Instead of staying where he is and feeling sorry for himself, he heads for his room, throwing on a ratty old AC/DC t-shirt and some shorts before grabbing his aviators and heading out the door. If he’s going to feel sorry for himself, it’s going to be with a cup of coffee in his hand.

The walk to the café is slow, and he drags his feet the whole way, wincing anytime he jostles himself too much or opens his eyes beyond mere slits. 

The ibuprofen hasn’t kicked in yet, and by the time he pushes through the back door of the café, he’s in full pity-party mode, sulking all the way through the empty kitchen and past the swinging doors into the less-than-busy café area.

He’s startled by the loud whooping that hits his sensitive ears and he stumbles back, glaring through his sunglasses at the clapping customers, before throwing them the finger, not caring if they never come back because of it—well, not caring _right_ _now_, anyway.

He grabs a mug and snatches the pot from Hannah’s hand, mid-pour, to fill his own, loading it with cream and sugar before slamming the pot back on the warmer. Hannah eyes him warily but he ignores her, his sour mood only worsening when he rounds the counter and lowers himself to the stool before shooting right back to his feet, his tailbone screaming in protest in tandem with his pounding head. With hands braced on the counter, he hangs his head, grinding his teeth to adjust to the ache.

“You alright there, boss-man?” Dean asks, standing far too close for Castiel’s liking even if there’s a good foot of space between them.

“Fine,” he grinds out before straightening up. He tries again but doesn’t have his butt on the stool for more than half a second before he’s getting up again with a frustrated growl.

Castiel snatches up a handful of napkins and whips them at Dean’s head when he hears him chuckle. They flutter in his face before floating to the floor, leaving Dean stunned and less than pleased, but Castiel really couldn’t care less as he glares, ignoring the staring customers as Dean raises an eyebrow and attempts to hold back his smirk.

He leans closer to Castiel, his lips brushing his ear, and Castiel hates that he feels it in his bones when Dean speaks. “I’m guessing you want me to pick that up since you’re… well, _ unable_?” Castiel stands stock-still, not daring to move even a muscle as liquid fire heats his bloodstream. “Oh, and you might want to…” He tugs at the collar of Castiel’s shirt. “Cover up a bit.”

Castiel doesn’t get it for a moment, squinting at Dean and tilting his head, before it finally dawns on him exactly what Dean’s talking about. His mouth falls open on a gasp as he balls his shirt-collar up in his hands to try and hide the hickeys. 

He can’t manage words, so he growls one more time before spinning on his heel and shuffling into the kitchen with his coffee in hand, not even bothering to look at Dean. The kitchen fan is loud, but the space is empty when he gets back there, and he sighs in relief before heading for his office, not bothering to close the door behind him as he glares at his desk chair, knowing with absolute certainty that he won’t be able to sit down with any degree of comfort.

With another heavy sigh, he drags himself back through the doors in search of a straw, snatching one right out of Hannah’s hand as she tries to put it in a drink.

“Oh, don’t worry, Castiel, I was _ absolutely _ getting that for _ you_,” she says, her words dripping with sarcasm as she snatches up another straw.

“Don’t forget who signs your paychecks,” he snaps, and then he’s alone in the kitchen again, cursing everything and everyone. Especially Dean, who, despite having put him in this pain with his grabby hands and stumbling feet, still has his body begging for more. Castiel hates how quickly and easily his body reacted to just the sound of Dean’s voice. Nothing has changed—he’s still Dean’s boss and they still won’t be doing that again, no matter how good it was, and how much he _wants _to do it again _so badly_. He can’t—_they _can’t.

So, he drags himself up onto his desk, facedown, with his legs hanging off the end, and sticks his straw in his coffee, not caring for the mess of paperwork under him as he drinks. His head still pounds incessantly and somewhere between the parking lot and his office he managed to lose his glasses, but the coffee’s good, so he’s got that going for him.

“Hey, you sure you’re alright?” 

Castiel’s eyes snap open and he chokes on his coffee, limbs flailing and paperwork scattering as he tumbles off the desk and onto the floor with a _ thud _and a pained groan. After a few seconds, he manages to pull himself together enough to get up off the ground and glare at his overly concerned employee. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he snaps, gathering the fallen papers and tossing them on his desk so he doesn’t have to watch Dean flinch.

“Well, I mean… after last night—”

“What the hell don’t you understand about _ nothing changes_?” Castiel plants his hands firmly on the edge of his desk and glares at Dean. His head spins a little, but he ignores it, focusing on not letting the hurt that flashes in Dean’s eyes get to him.

“What, so I’m just supposed to pretend like nothing happened?” The hurt bleeds into anger faster than Castiel has ever seen before. It’s like a physical wall comes between them and Castiel hates that he hates it so much. “It _ did _happen, Cas. And, yeah, fine, you’re my boss and I get that, but you can’t just pretend like—”

“Yes, I can,” he says. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Stop calling me _ Cas_!” He starts shuffling through his paperwork again, not really looking at it as he shoves them into half-assed piles to sort through later when Dean _ isn’t _ in his office and when he _ doesn’t _have a raging hangover. “Get out. Go do your job while you still have one.”

A humorless huff of laughter fills the silence as Dean shakes his head. “Wow, so it’s like that, huh?” He pauses, but Castiel doesn’t react. “You know, I’d say it wasn’t worth the trouble, but…” He shrugs, “It really fucking was.” Then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

“Fuck…” Castiel whispers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands. He hates this—he hates _Dean_. Hates that he doesn’t hate him, no matter how much he wants to. 

Somehow, Dean has gotten under his skin and now that he’s there, Castiel can’t manage to make him leave. It’s different with him than it is with literally _ everyone _else. Over the last few weeks, he’s started missing Dean when he’s not around in a way he’s never missed Balthazar when he’s gone. Not just because he’s a good worker and the customers like him, either. 

Don’t get him wrong—Balthazar is a dear friend and he enjoys his company, but he physically _ aches _when Dean leaves the room. Like right now—he aches.

And he _ hates _it.

**Time Left: 5 months, 3 weeks, 4 days**

“Hannah, please tell Dean that he needs to go wash dishes in the back,” Castiel says to her while counting the register. He ignores her soft sigh and doesn’t bother looking at her as she turns away to speak to Dean where he stands, not two feet away.

“Castiel says—”

“Tell him I finished the dishes _ twenty minutes ago_,” Dean responds, raising his voice just enough to have Castiel’s face screwing up with annoyance.

Hannah turns back to him, but he doesn’t bother to wait for her to relay Dean’s message. “Please tell him that it’s not a one-time thing; the dishes need to be washed more than once a day.” He counts out a set amount of cash to leave in the register for the next morning as his irritation simmers and grows with every eye roll he knows Dean is giving him, even if he can’t see for himself.

“Tell _him _that dishes only get dirty when we have _customers_, and the café is _empty_.” Castiel finally looks up with a huff, shoving the extra cash into an envelope before replying.

“Tell Dean—”

“No! No, I won’t _tell Dean_! You two are _adults_ and I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m not your freaking messenger pigeon. Speak to each other yourselves!” With another huff and a stomp of her foot, Hannah storms off into the kitchen, her apron strings trailing behind her. 

They’re both stunned silent for a moment before Castiel shakes his head and shoves the envelope in his bag for the pickup he has now. He and Dean haven’t spoken in a week—not since last Saturday’s spat in his office—and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

Well, not today, anyway, since he’ll be gone until the evening. Gabriel’s got him taking the boat to the mainland, which is significantly faster than the ferry, since bringing the whole order on board by himself would be more trouble than it’s worth.

“Hannah!” he shouts, ignoring Dean’s presence entirely as he wipes the counter and fills the display—getting ready for the lunch rush that’s only about half an hour away. He glances at the shelves and quickly adds, “Bring some red velvet muffins out with you!” 

Dean huffs before mumbling something about being able to do his fucking job, but Castiel ignores him. He knows Dean can do the job just fine—that’s not the problem. The problem is, after only a month, he’s _ too _good at his job, which makes firing him impossible no matter how badly he wants to never see that stupidly beautiful face again.

Hannah bursts through the doors with a tray of muffins, looking frazzled and annoyed, and Castiel can’t help the twinge of guilt in his chest. He knows he’s not being fair to her—he’s fully aware of that—but Dean just… he just drives Castiel _ crazy_.

The phone rings just as he’s about to open his mouth to give her instructions for while he’s gone. He holds up a finger and answers, “High Tide Café, Castiel speaking.”

“Cassie, I need you to bring Dean to get the order,” Gabriel says, sounding far more stressed than he has any right to be. 

“What? Why? I thought it was just a few boxes.” He should know better, though; his brother does this all the time. He plans something without telling Castiel, then orders everything they’ll need, and by the time he finally gets around to mentioning it, he has the excuse of too many supplies. 

“Well…”

“You fucking asshole,” Castiel mutters under his breath as anger simmers in his stomach. Sometimes—times like this—he wishes he’d never gone into business with his brother. He wishes he could afford to run their little café all by himself with a few employees and a few signature items. But Gabriel wants everything bigger and better, and he has the cash to back it up, so Castiel is shit out of luck.

“Since the karaoke night was such a success, we’re doing another one, but trivia! I _ know _you love trivia…” He does—he loves trivia a lot—but that doesn’t excuse Gabriel’s underhanded, assbutt tactics. “Anyway, there're a few dozen boxes, so you’ll need an extra set of hands and a few trips to get it done.”

“I’ll get Hannah to come with me,” he grumbles, not bothering to look up at her when her head snaps around.

“Don’t be ridiculous; Dean is the better person for the job with those _ arms_. Have you _ seen _his arms? Besides, he can’t be alone for the lunch rush and Hannah has plenty of experience.” Castiel rolls his eyes as his frustration grows. 

“I’ll just do it by myself, then,” he snaps, reopening the register to count out more cash since the order is now _ quadruple _what he originally thought it to be.

“Castiel Novak, I swear to God Almighty, if you show up to that loading dock alone, I will toss you off the cliffs myself.” Fuck. Castiel knows he’d do it, too.

“Fine,” he spits before hanging up on him. He turns his glare on Dean, whose startled gaze meets his for the first time since last Saturday. “Grab your shit; you’re coming with me. Hannah, you’re alone for the rest of the day, so don’t forget to count the register and put the money in the safe. Lock up before you go; I’ve got my key.”

She nods, but Castiel doesn’t wait for a reply as he shoves through the kitchen doors and heads for his office. They’ll need to go to the bank first, to deposit the money, so he can write the check without fear of it bouncing, before heading to the marina where Gabriel keeps the boats. 

Dean doesn’t try to speak to him as Castiel drives Gabriel’s car to the bank or the entire way to the marina. He doesn’t make a sound as Castiel grabs the keys from Rufus either, just waits patiently a few paces back with his hands in his pockets.

“The weather’s about to turn, so I wouldn’t be out too long if I were you,” Rufus tells Castiel, and he nods, not really taking his words with much weight since the man’s been predicting the weather wrong as long as Castiel has known him. Besides, the day is clear and sunny—the water is as still as it gets.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells him as they walk side by side down the length of the dock towards Gabriel’s eighteen-foot with the ninety-horse outboard. 

“Don’t think it’ll much matter—that weather will be here within the hour, so it’ll hit you before you even get halfway. Probably shouldn’t even be going, you know. Should just stay here and get whatever it is you’re going for tomorrow.” He nudges Castiel’s side with his elbow, his face wrinkling with concern when Castiel meets his gaze.

“Don’t worry about me,” Castiel says with a half-hearted grin as he steps into the boat and gets it running. Dean climbs in after, looking horribly awkward on the swaying floor. He’s pale as a ghost as he sits down, gripping the sides with a white-knuckled grip. Castiel would laugh if he weren’t so pissed off at him.

“You got your life jackets? Enough for the both of you?” Rufus hovers over the side of the boat, taking his sweet time in untying them and tossing in their bumpers.

“Yessir, they’re in the front compartment.” He rolls his eyes when Dean practically dives for the latch, pulling one out and putting it on, making sure the buckles are done up tight before retaking his seat and resuming his death grip on the edge of the boat.

“Alrighty, then… you boys be safe out there. These storms ain’t nothing to mess with, Castiel, but you already know that, don’t you?” He gives him a meaningful look before tossing the ropes in. Castiel only nods, his eyes flicking away as he pushes down the sharp sting in the back of his throat. He pulls out of his slip and points them in the direction of the mainland.

The boat drives fast over the smooth water, but Dean doesn’t seem to relax at all. Eventually, he shouts over the roar of the engine, “Shouldn’t we listen to him about the storm?”

Castiel glances at him but Dean’s eyes are on the sky, flicking back and forth as he looks for the danger. “That man has never accurately predicted the weather in all the years I’ve lived here.” That’s all the answer he gives Dean, but it seems to calm him just enough to loosen his grip on the boat. His shoulders sag a bit, too, and he relaxes into the seat.

Castiel watches him surreptitiously for a long time, taking in the way his face gradually loses its tension and his body seems to let go of its panic the longer they’re on the boat. A small smile even turns his lips after a bit.

Castiel can’t help but look. Dean is so beautiful and, more than anything, he wishes he _wasn’t_. He wishes Dean were easy to forget—to move on from—but it’s been a week and Castiel still has a hard time falling asleep in his own bed. If anything, he wishes Dean were _just _pretty, instead of being kind, and smart, and funny, too. He wishes Dean were a jerk—only pretty until he opened his mouth—but he’s the whole fucking package, and Castiel… Castiel is screwed. He’s thoroughly fucking _screwed_.

He needs to get away from Dean as fast as he can—needs to put some space between them because having him this close clouds his judgement—it makes him want to stop the boat in the middle of the ocean and kiss Dean senseless right here, right now.

He presses down harder on the accelerator, opening it up and pushing it as fast as it’ll go.

They’re not even halfway to the mainland—about an hour from the island—when the sky clouds over and the wind picks up. Castiel curses himself and Rufus and the fucking _ weather_—he hadn’t been lying to Dean when he’d told him about Rufus’s track recorded for getting it _ wrong_. So, why now? Why, when they’re in the middle of the ocean in a shitty little boat, does the weather decide to turn on a dime and make Rufus _ right _for the first time?

When the rain starts, Dean’s hands tighten on the seat, his eyes flicking between Castiel and the growing whitecaps ahead of them. Castiel doesn’t acknowledge him, though; he doesn’t want to worry Dean any more than he has to, despite the danger.

With every wave they hit, Castiel wars with himself over whether he should slow down or speed up—whether he should go back or press on. He doesn’t know—he has no fucking _ clue _ what to do because slowing down keeps them on the wave longer, putting them at risk of capsizing, but he loses control going faster, putting them at risk of capsizing. It’s a lose-lose situation and his heart pounds ever harder as it dawns on him that they’re in _ very _real danger out here.

“Shouldn’t you slow down?” Dean shouts over the crashing waves and howling wind—over the roar of the engine and the blood pounding in Castiel’s ears.

Castiel doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t adjust their speed either way, keeping their steady pace and doing his very best to avoid the highest waves.

“_Cas_! We should slow down, right?” Again, he doesn’t answer, and Dean growls in frustration. “This really isn’t the time for ignoring me—”

“I don’t know, okay?” Castiel shouts, cutting Dean off mid-sentence. “I don’t know what to do because slowing down is dangerous, but so is speeding up! I just… I don’t _ know_.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and his jaw snaps shut as palpable fear floods Castiel’s heart. He’s never been in this situation before and he’s _flailing_. And now it’s not just _his _life in danger but _Dean’s_, too, and that, more than anything, scares him to death.

Castiel stands up to see through the waves and sheets of rain that seem to come at them sideways. He has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel but he’s at the mercy of the waves. He decides to slow the boat just a little, his heart knocking against his rib cage as he does, and he meets Dean’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“Get down, Dean.” He tries to give him a smile, but it’s weak and shakes with his own fear. Dean hesitates for a moment but Castiel nods for him to go to the floor. Hopefully that’ll keep him from being knocked out of the boat. 

He crouches down low, lying in the fetal position and never taking his eyes off of Castiel, even as Castiel watches the rolling waves, trying his hardest to navigate their boat through the smallest ones.

Over and over, they climb the waves and every time the bow starts to dip, Castiel’s heart stops, before kicking back into gear when they crash down on the other side into a moment of calm. Another wave swells up and Castiel holds his breath.

It all happens so fast, and yet, Castiel watches the entire thing like it’s happening in slow motion.

This wave is bigger than the others—at least ten feet tall—and somehow, the boat gets caught inside it. Instead of going up and over, it’s the wave that goes up and over. Castiel can’t even manage a shout as his heart lodges in his throat. His eyes widen in terror and he opens his mouth to let out the sound, but it _ doesn’t come_. 

And he’s paralyzed—unable to slow down or speed up or turn away. Faster than he can think, he’s thrown out, tumbling in the frigid waves as he gasps desperately for air, flailing his arms uselessly. He’s being dragged under—_down, down, down. _ He’s going to die—_Dean _ is going to die—and it’s all his fault because he chose not to believe Rufus Turner and because he _ chose _not to learn how to swim.

Why did he do that? _Why_, when his mother drowned in the ocean, did he choose _not _to learn to swim? It seems so stupid now; why would anyone risk dying like this if they could learn how _not to_? His lungs are burning but he fights against the urge to pull in air because there _isn’t any_, and he thinks about his mother—about her words. The words she said on a daily basis right up until the day she died. 

_ You can run all you’d like from fate, baby, but it’ll still sneak up and bite you in the ass. _ He hated it when she said that, but now? Now he hates it even more because she was _ right_. 

He doesn’t want to die, though—not yet—but his flailing arms do nothing to save him and the waves drag him back down over and over and over again as his lungs scream for air. 

_ At least Dean has a life jacket, _ he thinks. _ At least Dean will be okay. _

When he can’t hold off any longer—his bodily instincts overriding his brain—he sucks in the salty water and his lungs _ scream _ at him. It _ burns _and Castiel thinks this might be the worst possible way to die. His heart hammers with terror as blood pounds in his ears and he cries helplessly—uselessly—trying to scream as salty water drowns his lungs.

But something… something catches him and he’s pulled _ up, up, up_. His head bursts out of the water and he’s _ gasping _ and _ choking _for air.

“_Cas_! Oh, shit! Fuck! Cas!” Hands scramble over him, pulling him close as he breaths in the burning air. He coughs and spits as he clings to Dean, holding onto him like a lifeline even as relief floods him that Dean’s alive and _okay_.

The waves still crest over them, crashing down and dragging them under, but Dean—bless his beautiful, terrified heart—is still wearing his life jacket, so they pop right back up, over and over and over again.

Castiel tucks his face into Dean’s neck, wrapping both arms around him as he clinches his legs around his waist.

“It’s okay—” Dean’s cut off as another wave crashes over their heads, dragging them back into the dark waters before the life jacket pulls them back—coughing and choking—to the surface. Dean tucks his freezing lips back against Castiel’s ear. “I’ve… I’ve g-got you. S’okay, Cas.” 

That’s the last either of them speaks while they ride out the storm, dragged down by every wave—with Castiel thinking every time that they won’t come back up—and then coming back up. 

There’s no way of telling what time it is or how long they’ve been there—the dark sky not giving anything away. There’s no promise of rescue, either, since the storm makes that almost impossible, and who knows how long it’ll take before anyone realizes they’re missing.

But he has Dean and he clings to him, holding him close as every locked up feeling he has for him breaks free, and for a moment—just the tiniest sliver of a second—all there is inside of him is _relief_. Relief that Dean is still alive, and breathing, and seemingly okay, but the relief fades and, more than anything else, he wishes he were _alone_, so Dean wouldn’t be in danger, too.

He closes his eyes and soaks in Dean’s heat, not bothering to count the waves anymore as they get worse, before slowly getting better until all that’s left are the tiniest swells. And the darkness; they have plenty of that, too.

Their breaths get longer… slower… less ragged as they’re allowed to breathe for more than a few seconds at a time. 

And still, they cling to each other.

Castiel uses the excuse of not being able to swim to hold on so tightly. He locks his arms and legs around Dean and squeezes his eyes shut and just _ breathes_.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually, his throat raw and his voice rough from forcing water in and out for so long.

“What?” Dean asks, his startled voice echoing in the stillness.

“For bringing you out here—I’m sorry. It’s my fault—”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“But—”

“It was the clearest fucking day. This isn’t your fault, so just… just _shut up_.” Dean’s hands tighten in Castiel’s shirt and he can’t be sure, but he thinks he feels Dean’s trembling lips against his neck. “Why didn’t you grab a life jacket?” Dean’s voice is pinched and cut off, like he’s holding back tears. “Why the _hell _didn’t you grab a _life jacket_? I thought… I thought…” 

There isn’t anything Castiel can say, so he says nothing. He just holds on tighter and does his best not to shiver. _ It’s so cold… _

“If you can’t swim, why didn’t you grab a _fucking_ _life jacket_?” Dean’s hands squeeze tighter and Castiel’s heart actually _aches_.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He repeats the words over and over as Dean finally breaks, sobbing incoherently into Castiel’s shoulder as the shock wears off. Then, he’s crying, too—silently. Tears drip down his cheeks and disappear into the ocean, lost forever.

Eventually, even the tears stop, and they’re left with the silence—utter_ silence_. The only sounds in the world seem to come from the gentle flow of the water and from the two of them.

“Do you think they know we’re missing?” Dean asks, his breath whispering across Castiel’s skin—it’s soothing in a way he doesn’t expect it to be.

“I hope so. They would’ve been expecting us hours ago, so someone must know we’re missing.” Castiel hopes they do, at least. He hopes they’re looking for them right now.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?” he hums, closing his eyes against the burn of salt water.

“Tell me something—anything—’cause I really feel like I’m about to lose my shit, so… please? Just talk?” Castiel’s heart aches with every pleading word and he can’t help but give Dean anything he wants, just to lessen his pain.

“Okay, well, I… uh, when I was little, Gabe and I used to ride our bikes down this hill. It’s at the other end of the island and winds through the forest, and we’d go as fast as we could—feet up, letting the pedals spin—and then we’d close our eyes—”

“_What? _” Dean gasps, his hold on Castiel tightening.

He chuckles softly before a round of coughing seizes him. Dean pats his back, doing little more than offering him comfort. 

When he finally gets ahold of himself, he continues. “We would close our eyes and _race_. The first one to Bobby’s house won, but we wouldn’t even know who the winner was because we had our eyes closed, so we had to keep doing it until there was a winner.”

It’s Dean who chuckles this time. “Did you ever realize the flaw in your plan?”

“We weren’t the brightest kids, okay?” He laughs, pinching Dean’s waist and feeling the rumble of laughter in his chest. “That was before my mom died and my dad left. After that, we had to grow up pretty fast.”

Dean is silent for a moment—thinking, Castiel guesses. “We’re pretty alike, you and I.”

“How so?”

“My mom died just before my sixteenth birthday. Dad took off and I was left behind with…” He trails off, his voice catching as he tucks his face deeper into Castiel’s neck. Castiel tries to focus on Dean’s warmth as he shivers ever so slightly. “Cas?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you hate me so much?” There’s a fragility in Dean’s voice that cuts through Castiel, flaying him open and leaving him bloody and exposed. 

He closes his eyes on a sigh as he thinks long and hard about just how much he _ doesn’t _ hate Dean. “I don’t hate you.” _ The exact opposite, actually_. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, fighting off another coughing fit before continuing. “I just… it’s just… I don’t hate you…” He trails off, leaving it at that. He doesn’t know how to talk about what he feels—doesn’t even know where to start—so he doesn’t. He just leaves it at _ I don’t hate you_. 

But Dean doesn’t just leave it at that—he pushes. “God, I could strangle you sometimes,” Dean murmurs, and Castiel knows he’s not really saying the words to him, but because of their closeness, there’s no way he doesn’t hear. “Why do you have to make everything so fucking _ difficult_?”

“I don’t make things difficult!” he cries, indignation clear in his voice as he pulls his face out of Dean’s neck, before immediately having it pulled back.

“You make everything difficult for _ everyone _ and it used to be endearing until you started making everything difficult for _ me_.”

“I don’t make things difficult,” he grumbles under his breath once more, and Dean chuckles against his skin, his warm exhales ghosting across his neck and making him shiver harder than he already is. 

Castiel tries to ignore the way his teeth chatter, but it’s getting more and more difficult the longer they’re out here. He’s just so tired. He lays his head down on Dean’s shoulder, trying not to swallow the water that splashes up in his face, and closes his eyes. 

Maybe it’s stupid to push Dean away, employee or not. He definitely feels _ something _for the assbutt, but the terror that comes with opening himself up to another person is still very present and very real. 

He feels like he’s on top of a cliff, peeking over the edge into the rolling sea, and he knows it’s dangerous to jump—stupid, even—but with Dean so close to him, it’s all he wants. He wants to take the leap—to throw himself over the edge of possibility—and just pray to anything out there that Dean’s waiting at the bottom wearing his life jacket.

“What if… what if I weren’t s-so… difficult?” he whispers though his chattering teeth next to Dean’s ear. “What if I t-tried… hard-er?”

Dean’s trembling lips press against the fading hickey on his neck—whether purposefully or not, Castiel doesn’t know—and he squeezes Castiel a little tighter before he speaks. “Dinner. Let m-me… take you f-for d-dinner,” he mumbles. “When we g-get… out of this g-goddamn... oc-cean.”

“Okay,” he whispers with a weak smile, his head falling back to Dean’s shoulder as exhaustion threatens to drag him under. “B-but _ just _d-dinner. N-n-nothing else.” 

Dean lets out a tremulous laugh, his breath no longer warm against Castiel’s ear, and he wonders just how long until they both freeze. His muscles are so stiff—so cold. He doesn’t even feel the soreness anymore—doesn’t feel much of anything but _ tired_.

He has no way of knowing how long they float there as he drifts in and out of consciousness, suspended in the space between sleeping and waking. His arms feel loose and stiff all at the same time—so weak it’s all he can do to keep holding onto Dean. 

At some point, he must let go because Dean’s arms tighten around him, frantic in the way they grasp and clutch his sodden clothing. “Cas! Cas, you g-gotta… gotta w-wake up!” 

Castiel groans weakly but doesn’t open his eyes—they’re too heavy—and his arms hang limply around Dean’s waist.

“C’mon, Cas…” His arms are pulled up around Dean’s shoulders and all he can do is groan as his head falls to the side. “S-stay w-with m-m-me,” Dean whispers, practically vibrating with his shivering. Castiel doesn’t shiver anymore and, somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms are going off, telling him that’s bad—it’s very, _ very _bad—but he’s too tired to care.

He knows they can’t stay here much longer—that the salt and cold will get to them—but the world around them is quiet. No one is coming, so Castiel keeps his eyes closed and does his best to hold onto Dean. 

He’s just barely on the edge of consciousness when he hears it—helicopter blades—and he tries for a weak smile, but doesn’t quite get there. “Gabe,” he whispers just as a bright spotlight shines down on their heads. 

His heartbeat slows another fraction… his limbs lose all their strength…he falls into unconsciousness like it’s a warm, dry shelter in a storm.


	4. On Dry Land

**Time After: 3 weeks**

Castiel opens his eyes, but it’s still so dark. So, so, _ so _dark. 

Arms hold him too tight. Whose arms? Someone holds his hands, too. Wrapped up tight around his back—squished under him. Castiel struggles but the arms won’t let go. He sits up and the overhead light flicks on, but no one’s there. He’s _ alone _but the arms still hold him too tight. 

He tries to get away, scooting back until he hits a soft wall… a padded wall. His eyes fly wildly around the room as every part of him screams with fear. Every part but his mouth. 

There’s something in his eyes, making everything cloudy—everything is hazy—and _terrifying_. He screams but no one comes for him. His whole body aches, but no one saves him. He’s trapped and thrashing but no one _hears _him.

He’s _ alonealonealone _in here and he screams and screams and screams until his throat hurts so bad he can’t scream anymore. His head hurts, too—it pounds with a frantic pulse as wetness slides down his cheeks. 

Still, no one comes.

Eventually, his eyes fall shut and his heartbeat slows as his mind gives in to exhaustion. He doesn’t sleep—he doesn’t ever sleep—but his body can’t keep up its terror for too long. He gasps for every breath, shaking and shivering as his hands go numb behind his back. His arms ache in their confines but he gives up struggling for now. 

When he peels his eyes open to the low-lit, padded room, he startles, finding that he isn’t, in fact, alone, as he had been, not a few minutes ago. A man in a leather jacket and big boots smirks at him from the doorway. His dark blonde hair is short, and his freckles stand out against his pale skin, but it’s his eyes that Castiel watches, and for some reason or another, this man isn’t scary.

He approaches Castiel without a word, lowering himself to the floor next to him, but not close enough to touch. Castiel doesn’t know the man, but he feels like maybe he should. Like, maybe this man knows _ him _ and that’s why he’s smiling like that—like Castiel is something special.

Maybe he knows this man, but maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this man only knows Castiel, but he feels safe to him. He’s not going to hurt him—he knows that, but he’s not sure how. Castiel’s gasping breaths slow the longer they sit together. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, in the silence, but eventually, the door opens, and someone pokes their head in. 

“Ready, Castiel?”

He doesn’t answer as he looks back at the beautiful man, who nods as he stands, and Castiel watches him walk out the door without a word. 

He’s sad to see him go.

**Time Left: 5 months, 3 weeks, 3 days**

Castiel’s head pounds incessantly.

Not from the dehydration, or exhaustion, or whatever—not from any physical _thing_—but for the simple fact that, for the last _four hours _Gabriel hasn’t shut his mouth. Not once. He just talks and talks and talks—mostly ordering people around for Castiel’s sake, but _God _could he just _shut up_? For _five minutes_?

Castiel has been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear of _ more _talking, preferring the darkness afforded by his closed eyes. Gabriel will be all worried and annoying about taking care of him and lecturing him, and he just doesn’t want to deal with it yet, so he doesn’t. He deals with the low, constant chatter, instead.

That is, until he mentions Dean.

“The other guy, how is he? Cassie will want to know when he wakes up.” 

Castiel’s eyes snap open so fast that he groans at the bright, blinding light, before immediately squeezing them shut again, but it’s too late. Gabriel is on him in an instant, bending over the bed and getting right into Castiel’s face with his wide, worried eyes. 

“Cassie? Cassie, I’m here! Do you need anything? Can I get you something?” 

Castiel squints up at his brother, loving and hating him for his concern. “Will you please, for the love of _God_, just _stop talking_,” he whispers. “Headache,” he clarifies when Gabriel’s worried expression turns hurt before he steps away again.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’ll just… I’ll just get the nurse.” He spins on his heel before Castiel can stop him and ask about Dean, but he’s back in a couple of seconds with a nurse in tow.

With a weak hand and wide eyes, he reaches out to her when she tries to check his vitals. “Dean?” he whispers, and she gives him a soft smile, her eyes crinkling a little at the corners. 

“He’s fine, Castiel. He’s been asking for you, though.” Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair sways as she removes her stethoscope and presses it to his chest before instructing him to breathe. Castiel’s heart calms a little, knowing Dean is awake—that he’s okay.

“Thank you, Tessa,” he whispers, having recognized her from the quilting circle he used to go to once a week at the community center, before quitting when the café got too busy—she moved to the island sometime last year, so he’s glad to see her again, even if the circumstances aren’t the greatest. Her smile brightens as she nods before leaving the room. Then Castiel is alone with his pacing brother. Gabriel moves swiftly from one wall to the other, his head down as he chews on a fingernail, hair falling into his eyes.

“Gabe—”

Gabriel stops, spinning to face Castiel with the most broken expression Castiel has ever seen. “I’m sorry, okay?” His shoulders slump and he looks so small—so defeated—in that moment. Castiel’s heart aches for him as Gabriel throws his arms out to his sides. “It’s my fault you were out there. It’s _ my fault—_” His voice cracks, cutting him off as he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“It’s not,” Castiel croaks, his throat still impossibly sore from the saltwater he breathed in. “I’m the one who ignored Rufus. He told me—”

“You and I both know Rufus is never right about the weather.”

“Except today. Today he was right and it’s not your fault that I didn’t listen.” Castiel stares him down, despite how tired he is and how much he just wants to sleep—his brother needs to know he doesn’t blame him for this. It never even crossed his mind to put this on him.

“But—”

“Gabe, enough,” Castiel says as he looks around the room. Something sour twists in his stomach as he notices little things... _different _things. He looks up at Gabriel. “This isn’t Sandover General,” Castiel says, and it’s not a question; he knows they’re on the mainland. 

“Uh... no. No, we’re not on Sandover Island.” Gabriel shakes his head, his eyes taking on a nervous glint as he watches Castiel from across the room. Castiel’s brother is nothing if not stubborn, but he drops it for now.

“Do you know where Dean is?” Castiel asks instead of giving in to the swell of panic that tries to drown him. He can’t do that now—Gabriel has enough on his plate at the moment.

“Not sure. He was better off than you, but I think they took him for some tests. Not sure what for; patient confidentiality and all that jazz, but I think he’s fine.” He shrugs and flops into the chair beside the bed. Castiel closes his eyes and sinks deeper into the thin hospital bed mattress as relief settles in his bones.

It’s not long before his eyes are peeling back open, though, to the sound of a nurse’s voice from the doorway.

“Castiel? There’s someone here to see you if you’re okay with a visitor?” She opens the door a little wider and Dean’s head peeks around the doorframe. He smiles softly—almost hesitantly—as Castiel’s heart leaps. 

“Let him in,” he says quietly, his voice still rough and a little shaky.

She steps out of Dean’s way, holding the door for him as he enters, dressed in a pair of borrowed, dark blue scrubs, his hair a wild mess of saltwater and sweat, and an IV stand full of fluids to match the one beside Castiel’s bed, dragging along beside him.

Gabriel stands so fast that Castiel startles, his eyes snapping over to his brother as he moves away from the chair. “I’ll just… I’m gonna grab some lunch. Be back in a bit.” Then he’s gone, and the door is closing softly behind him, leaving him alone with Dean once again.

“Hey,” Dean whispers once he’s settled in the chair. Castiel lets himself take in the sight of him, his eyes roaming over Dean’s freckles and chapped lips—his voice is only a little hoarse; not nearly as bad as Castiel’s.

He looks mostly fine, but Castiel still pauses. Something’s not… right, but he can’t quite figure out _what_. His eyebrows furrow the longer he focuses on Dean as it becomes more and more apparent that something’s _off_.

“Is everything alright?”

Dean’s eyes are too tight—his lips more pursed than usual—and, even though he hasn’t known him for all that long, Castiel can _ feel _that something’s not right.

“What? Yeah, fine—it’s fine. I’m fine, yeah. Just glad you’re okay.” But he won’t look Castiel in the eyes—won’t look anywhere but at his own fingers, twisted in his scrub pants.

Castiel wants to trust Dean—to take his words as truth and let everything be fine, just for now—just long enough to let himself be happy that they’re both here and safe and _alive_. So he does; he lets himself drop the subject and smile like everything’s fine. “So, when are you taking me back to Sandover?”

And Dean—kind, compassionate Dean—lets him forget.


	5. Kiss Me On My Front Porch

**Time After: 3 weeks, 5 days**

It’s like looking at the world through a hazy film—that’s how Castiel thinks of it. Everything’s a little blurry… a little foggy… a little disconnected. He’s sure he’d hate it if he could feel anything but drowsy. Why’s he so drowsy, anyway? All he does is sleep and sit… sleep and lie down… sleep and eat and use the bathroom and sit. 

Time passes without him even noticing. Sometimes it’s dark and slowly gets lighter. Sometimes it’s light and slowly gets darker. Castiel watches through the window—through the _ barred _ window.

Nobody comes to visit but the lady in blue with her bowl, and her spoon, and her sad blue eyes. Castiel opens his mouth when he’s told… closes it when it’s full… swallows.

Every day, though, the man comes. He doesn’t speak, and no one seems to really notice him, but Castiel’s eyes always find his. Castiel thinks he might like the man if he could focus on anything long enough to know how he feels. He might find him familiar—comforting, even.

It’s when the haze begins to fade—just before the lady in blue comes back—that the man starts to feel familiar. He starts to think that maybe he’s seen him before—in another life, perhaps. In some other place.

But the lady is back—the haze seeps into his bones—and he drifts…

**Time Left: 5 months, 3 weeks, 3 days**

Castiel leaves the hospital later that day with strict orders to rest and _ hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. _He rolls his eyes but takes the bottle of water handed to him at the door by Hael, another doting nurse, who—as he remembered after the second or third time she came to check his vital—grew up just down the street from him. He won’t admit it, but he’s grateful for the wheelchair they use to bring him to Gabriel’s car. His head still aches and he’s not sure he could take two steps with the haze in front of his eyes.

Dean drives them home, telling Gabriel he’ll drop the car off at the ferry dock sometime that week. Dean makes sure Castiel gets into bed with lots of water within reach and more pillows than he knew he owned propping him. He frets and fusses but disappears when he’s finished, leaving Castiel lonely and exhausted.

Castiel naps for what seems like days, the soft sheets beneath him cool to the touch despite the abnormally balmy air for this early in the year. When he finally wakes again, it’s to the sound of pots and pans banging in the kitchen.

“Dean?” he croaks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before pushing himself up on his elbows. He ignores the ache in his muscles and calls a little louder. “Dean?”

The banging stops, turning into the sound of bare feet walking across the old hardwood floors. Dean’s head peeks around the doorway; his hair is still a mess, but his smile is soft and genuine.

“Hey there, sleepyhead. You hungry?” Castiel doesn’t have time to answer for himself before his stomach growls loudly. Dean chuckles, “I’m no Chef Novak, but I can whip up a mean short stack if that’s good with you?”

Castiel’s lips turn up of their own accord as the strangest kind of warmth floods him, flipping his stomach and sending his heart skipping. “Sounds great,” he whispers, smiling fondly as Dean turns on his heel and bounces off to the kitchen. It’s not long before a whistled tune reaches him, and more banging ensues.

Castiel leans back into his mountain of pillows and closes his eyes, feeling a kind of comfort he hasn’t felt since… well, since his mom died. If anyone were to ask, Castiel would deny wholeheartedly that he likes being taken care of. He can do things for himself, damnit, and he likes doing things _ his _way.

But, right then, Castiel can’t think of anything that feels better than letting Dean cook for him. Pancakes, no less; one of his favorites. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness, contemplating everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, and he finds that he’s been acting entirely too stupid for a grown-ass man. He likes Dean—there’s no denying that—so why _ shouldn’t _ he go out with him? Why should he keep himself locked away in self-imposed celibacy for no other reason than wanting to do everything for himself?

He knows why, of course. Loving another person gives them the power to hurt you, and he can’t do that again. But that’s exactly what he’s doing, isn’t it? He’s letting Dean in and he’s powerless to stop it. Dean already has all the power, and Castiel’s not entirely sure he even wants it back.

He doesn’t notice Dean standing in his doorway with a plate stacked high with deliciously fluffy pancakes in one hand and a bottle of maple syrup in the other. He doesn’t notice the way he smiles at him, either—softly… fondly… almost _lovingly_, but not quite.

It takes Dean sitting on the edge of his bed for him to open his eyes. “Mind if I join you?” Castiel scoots over in answer, taking one of the forks from Dean as he positions himself in the pillow nest and drenches the pancakes in syrup. “This doesn’t count as our date, just FYI,” Dean says as he looks sideways at Castiel with a playful smile. 

Castiel can’t help but tease back. “Damn, and here I was thinking I could get off easy.” He winks at Dean, who nudges him softly in the ribs, before they dig in, surrounded by a perfect kind of silence.

**Time Left: 5 months, 1 week, 2 days**

Castiel doesn’t even jump anymore when a hand brushes his lower back, and a body moves behind him where he stands in front of the register. A forced scowl turns down his lips, though, as he glances over at Dean, who is busy pouring coffee now, both hands put to work.

He finishes counting out Mrs. Hester’s change and passes it over with a smile as a hand rests on his hip and Dean’s warm, leather and cherry scent assaults him. An arm reaches around him to pass over the coffee and Dean’s breath brushes his ear as he speaks.

“And here’s your coffee. Have a great day.” Castiel’s breath catches in his throat and he unconsciously leans back into Dean’s chest, his back burning from the contact.

It’s been too damn long since he’s had Dean in his bed. Two weeks since the accident and at least three since they had sex, and Castiel is about ready to tear his clothes off right in the middle of his café and have Dean fuck him against the counter.

It doesn’t help that Dean insists on touching him at every possible opportunity. An accidental skim of his fingers over Castiel’s hip, or his hand on the small of his back as he squeezes by in the too-small space. Sometimes it’s no more than fixing Castiel’s bedhead, but other times—like this one—Dean presses his entire front to Castiel’s back and he has to fight to keep himself from dragging Dean back to his office and bending him over his desk.

Thankfully—or unfortunately; he hasn’t really decided which—Dean steps away and grabs the dish bin, so Castiel takes the opportunity to escape to the kitchen and catch his breath. He’s too hot, sweat dripping from his forehead as he pulls his shirt away from his skin to let some air in. It doesn’t help, but there’s not much else he can do.

When he finally manages to pull himself together enough to get back to the front, the place isn’t nearly as crowded, and Dean is leaning against the counter chatting away with Hannah, who’s been smiling wide since he and Dean started talking again.

Castiel walks up behind Dean, whose elbows rest on the counter as he sticks his ass out behind him. He wants nothing more than to grab a handful, but he doesn’t—too professional for that shit.

So, he just looks his fill instead.

When Dean finally does straighten up, Castiel’s eyes slide past him to a table in the corner where a head full of fiery red hair sits. His eyebrows knit together as he watches Charlie scowl at Dean as she sips her caramel macchiato. He tips his head to the side when he catches her eye, but she just grins and lifts her mug in his direction.

“Hannah, why don’t you take your lunch. Dean and I will clean up here.” She stops her conversation with Dean, mid-sentence and scurries off to the break room, presumably before he can call her back for any reason. He just shakes his head and turns his eyes on Dean, who’s standing with one hip resting against the counter and that damnable smirk on his face. Castiel just rolls his eyes and moves away to reorganize the muffins in the display case.

“So,” Dean starts, standing shoulder to shoulder with Castiel as they both rearrange things on the counter—Dean moving a cookie before Castiel moves it somewhere else. “When are you gonna let me take you on that date we talked about?”

“You mean the one _ you _talked about?” Castiel snarks back, fighting back a grin as he takes a blueberry-lemon muffin from the shelf and peels off the paper.

“And _ you _agreed to? Yeah, that one.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and covers his smile by taking a bite of his muffin before letting out a soft moan. Damn, he’s good.

Dean takes a raspberry-chocolate chip muffin for himself, ignoring Castiel’s glare as he bites into it, not even bothering with the paper.

“I’ve got… something—something special planned,” Dean says around the bite before using his thumb to wipe a smear of raspberry filling from the corner of his mouth, and sucking it off. He looks up at Castiel and raises an eyebrow, his green eyes glittering in the late-afternoon sunlight that shines through their wall of windows.

“Oh, really?” Castiel hums, looking down at his muffin as he picks off a chunk and tosses it in his mouth before taking out a notepad and writing down what he and Dean have eaten. He sticks it to the register, pressing down on the adhesive strip to make sure it’ll stay in place. “What exactly were you thinking?”

“Hmm… you’ll just have to wait and see.” 

Castiel isn’t looking, but he knows Dean’s smirking at him, and he rolls his eyes, huffing irritably.

“Whatever. I have payroll to do so you’re on your own until Hannah’s done with her lunch. Don’t come find me if you need anything,” he says as he hurries into the kitchen, trying his damnedest to hold back a grin as Dean’s indignant shout carries through the doors.

Castiel has been finished with the payroll for who knows how long now, and so he sits in his office, twiddling his thumbs, and waits for the order to be confirmed—with internet as slow as this, it’s a wonder they can get anything done around here.

Naturally, his mind wanders to Dean. 

He wonders what Dean’s doing right now. Obviously, he’s working—or he damn well better be—but is he talking with customers? Cleaning the tables? He supposes he could go find out—it _ is _his job to keep an eye on him, after all—but the flutter in his stomach when he thinks of going to see Dean is entirely new and absolutely terrifying. 

So, he stays put and watches for the order’s confirmation.

There’s a knock on his door and he looks up as Dean pokes his head in, looking entirely too good for being a tired, sweaty mess.

“I’m heading out,” he says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder as he opens the door a little wider. Castiel’s eyes shoot to the time in the bottom corner of his laptop and his heart sinks a little when he realizes that it is actually time for Dean to go home. Damnit, he wanted to talk with him some more.

Castiel nods, sitting back in his chair and ignoring the way it creaks under his weight. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Actually,” Dean says, stepping further into his office while tucking his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “We’re going on our date. Tonight. Be ready no later than half an hour after closing.”

Castiel’s eyes widen as he stares at Dean, who looks way too serious for how absurd that idea actually is. “What the hell? Dean, I can’t just—”

“I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty!” Dean calls back as he hurries out the door, ducking as a pad of sticky notes flies past his head.

Castiel can’t help his grin, though, as excitement bubbles up in his chest.

He works for a little bit longer after the order confirmation comes through, and only looks up when there’s a knock on the door. He fully expects it to be Hannah, so when Charlie pokes her head in, he’s surprised.

“Hey, boss, can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks, already stepping around the door and taking a seat in one of two chairs across from him.

“What can I do for you?” He leans back in his chair and stretches out his aching neck before focusing on her.

“It’s uh… it’s actually about Dean.” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow, belatedly noticing that she’s refusing to look him in the eye. “What about him?” he asks, keeping his voice impassive—professional—even as his heart rattles in his chest at the mere mention of Dean.

“It’s… well, it’s a—a personal question. More of a check-in, really.” She waves her hands around her head, her fiery hair flying everywhere.

“What, Charlie?” He almost growls, losing his patience from the second he heard the word _personal_. He doesn’t _do _personal with his employees—well, not until _Dean_, that is—but he doesn’t want to broaden that scope, either.

“I mean, none of us really _ know _him, you know? And I’m worried that you, getting into something with him might, uh… well, that it might end badly, is all.” She stares at him now, her green eyes wide and painfully sincere. It’s almost endearing—almost.

Castiel lifts an eyebrow as he puts on a smirk. “Jeez, Charlie, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were jealous.” His smirk grows as she rolls her eyes. “Seriously, though—I’ll be fine.”

He leaves it at that, turning back to his work and letting her see herself out—which she does with a heavy, overly dramatic sigh.

As Castiel works, trying his hardest to ignore the clock ticking on the wall, he hopes to high heaven that what he told Charlie is true.

“Just a minute!” Castiel shouts as he hops into his jeans, water flying everywhere as his hair whips around. He pulls on his button-down and grabs a towel, scrubbing at his dripping locks one more time before giving up with a huff and finding some socks. 

He has no idea where Dean plans on taking him, and, therefore, has no idea how to dress. It’s not like any of the restaurants in town are overly fancy, and the only one he can think of that might be considered “too good for socks and sandals” is Talbot’s on the main strip, but even that’s not _fancy-_fancy.

He curses Dean and his surprises. Castiel _ hates _surprises, but for now, he’ll go with it with only a little complaint. 

He hears the hinge on the screen door screech and once again thinks about the can of WD-40 under the sink, but he’s already running late as he does up the last button on his shirt and closes the doors to his bedroom.

Dean is waiting in the entryway wearing much the same thing as Castiel, though he’s got a leather jacket slung over one arm and a pair of aviators pushed up on his head.

“That’s a nice squeak your door’s got,” Dean says with a grin, glancing back at the door in question.

“Sorry, I really should fix that.” Castiel fusses with his shirt a little longer, tucking it in before untucking it to re-button it since a few of them are crooked, then tucking it in again.

“No, seriously, I like it—it reminds me of a home. It’s what I remember my childhood house’s screen door sounding like.”

Castiel stares at him incredulously but Dean looks entirely sincere. He doesn’t comment as he finishes with his shirt and nods towards where Dean’s black beast must be parked around the house—he could hear that thing coming for _ miles_.

Dean drives them from one end of the island to the other, telling him all about the Impala, which he affectionately refers to as ‘_Baby_’—how she used to belong to his dad before John disappeared, and how Dean fixed her up in his time between school and work. They talk the whole drive—passing The Roadhouse, Talbot’s, and the little seafood hut that Benny and his wife, Andrea, just opened up on the beach—all the way to the edge of the forest. Castiel never spent too much of his time there as a child, but only because it’s so far away from the tiny house he lived in growing up, and after his mom died, he didn’t much care to play. 

Dean parks the car, grabbing a blanket and a picnic basket from the trunk before he leads Castiel through the trees.

“Just so you know, if you plan to kill me back here, you’re totally fired.” Castiel glances over as Dean throws his head back on a laugh, his whole face shining like the sun as his smile transforms him. Castiel is struck dumb by just how beautiful Dean is, watching with rapt attention as his nose crinkles a little and his eyes shine with happiness. 

“Aw, darn,” he says, kicking at the dirt under their feet as they meander through the trees, not really in any rush to get to where they’re going.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Castiel asks after a moment, his curiosity getting the better of him as he pulls his shirt away from his skin, regretting it now in the balmy evening air.

“To the cliffs,” Dean answers, twining his fingers through Castiel’s like it’s something they do—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It scares the shit out of Castiel because it _ feels _like the most natural thing in the world, but he doesn’t let go. God help him, he doesn’t let go.

“When I first got here, I scoped the place out a little. You know, got the lay of the land, and all. I found these cliffs on my third day here.” He shrugs, swinging their hands between them as he steps over a fallen tree, helping Castiel over afterward. They’re not too far from the break in the trees—Castiel knows that much—and he can hear the sound of the waves crashing into the rocks below—can smell the salt in the air more potently than in the middle of town.

“That reminds me. I’ve been meaning to ask—how do you know my brother?” Castiel glances over at Dean and watches as his face closes off.

“It’s, uh… it’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you another time.” 

Castiel scowls at him but decides to let it slide for now. “Just tell me one thing—did you sleep with him?”

“No!” Dean shouts on a laugh, knocking his shoulder into Castiel’s as they break through the trees.

“Oh, good, because getting his sloppy seconds isn’t something I’m okay with.” Castiel tries his damnedest to hold back the smirk trying to break free, but it’s no use as his lips curl with it.

“Uh… have you forgotten that we’ve already slept together? Damn, I didn’t think I was _ that _average.” Dean says the last part under his breath, but loud enough for Castiel to hear, and he laughs, hitting his side with their entwined hands. 

“You’re not average and you damn well know it, Winchester.”

The only reply Dean gives him is the cockiest smirk Castiel’s ever seen.

Dean lets go of his hand to spread out the blanket and Castiel misses the warmth of him instantly. He rubs his hands together as he waits for Dean to finish, before lowering himself to the ground beside Dean, who’s rummaging through the picnic basket.

The spray of the waves tickles his nose as he watches the sun sink steadily towards the sea. Late sunsets are one the reasons Castiel loves summer so much—if we could leave work at the end of the day and _ still _be able to watch the sun disappear into the ocean, he’d be happy. There’s nothing for miles and miles since they’re facing away from the mainland, and Castiel can’t help but feel the magnitude of it all. Everything feels so big in this moment—so important.

“Sorry, I’m not much a chef. Not like you, anyway,” Dean says as he hands Castiel a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, before pouring them each a glass of white wine into little plastic cups.

Castiel grins—a full-on, beaming smile—as he takes the sandwich from Dean’s slightly shaky fingers. “This is perfect,” he says as he unwraps it and sinks his teeth into the soft bread, not bothering to wait for Dean to unwrap his own. “I love PB and J,” he mumbles around his full mouth as he knocks shoulders with Dean again, before swallowing. “Thank you.”

Dean grins and knocks his shoulder in return.

“Can I ask you something?” Castiel asks, taking a sip of his wine before setting it aside and turning to face Dean more fully.

“Shoot,” Dean says, waiting patiently as his eyes roam Castiel’s features. Castiel wonders what Dean sees when he looks at him.

“When we first met, you were—um... well, you were kind of a dick. Why?” When it becomes obvious that Dean has no idea what he’s talking about, Castiel huffs, but elaborates, throwing his hands around at his sides. “You barely said two words to me at a time, and you were always so sarcastic…” He trails off with a shrug.

Dean’s cheeks redden as he looks away, a sheepish little smile curving his mouth as he shrugs. “I was nervous,” he says, then busies himself with dusting sand off the blanket.

“Bullshit,” Castiel blurts. There’s no way he made _ Dean Winchester _nervous! Not a chance. “I’m not buying it.”

“Not a word of a lie.” Another shrug, but he meets Castiel’s gaze. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re hot as fuck, and…” He trails off, waving one hand in the air before he continues. “I’ve never worked in a place like the café. It’s intimidating—_you’re _intimidating.”

Castiel can’t help it—he smiles wide, his heart, warming, as he realizes just how similar their feelings have been right from the start. Before he can overthink it, he leans in closer to Dean, pressing a kiss to his rapidly heating cheek, before pulling away and taking a bite of his sandwich, his smile still in place.

They eat in silence, just enjoying the view and each other’s company. The cicadas buzz nearby and the gulls swoop and dip in front of them, catching small fish in their beaks before swallowing them whole. Castiel can’t help but wonder about the point of eating without enjoying as he digs into a piece of cherry pie that tastes suspiciously like the one he baked this morning—the one that was somehow short two slices before he’d even set it out in the display.

When they’re finished, Dean packs everything away before scooting closer to Castiel so that they touch from shoulder to foot where they both have their legs stretched out in front of them. 

“How am I doing so far?” Dean asks, and Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “On the date, I mean. Is this good?”

A small chuckle tumbles out of Castiel as he rolls his eyes. “Nervous?” he asks, raising both eyebrows this time.

“Well, _yeah_. In case you haven’t noticed, I kinda really like you.” He nudges Castiel’s foot with his own.

“Just _ kinda really_?” Castiel glances over at Dean just in time to catch the eye roll. 

“Fine, _ really_, _ really_.”

“That’s better,” Castiel teases, his smirk breaking through as Dean huffs. “You’re doing fine, by the way. I’m having a really nice time,” he says, deciding to cut Dean some slack since he really does look nervous. 

Dean lets out a breath and it whistles through his teeth as his shoulders sag. He glances over at Castiel and smiles as the sun touches the water ahead of them, casting an orange glow over Dean’s face that highlights his freckles and gives new life to his already too-green eyes.

“Tell me more about you,” Castiel says after a moment of simply watching Dean. He’s dying to get to know him and what makes him tick.

Another big breath—out his nose this time—and he hesitates for only a moment. “I, um…I don’t know. I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. Small little place without much to do, so I got into a little more trouble than I should’ve.” He shrugs on a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“What kind of trouble?” Castiel asks, turning his body toward Dean as he listens.

“You know, the usual. Too much to drink at too young of an age to be drinking.” He shakes his head again and looks over at Castiel with a familiar sadness in his eyes. “I—uh…” he chuckles, but it isn’t funny, and looks down at his hands. “I was pretty messed up for a while, see. My momma passed in a fire and my daddy took off not long after that. Then I lost Sammy…” He clears his throat and looks out into the crashing ocean as the sky turns a deep, blood red. “’Nough about me. Tell me about growing up in a place like this.”

Castiel wants to push—to ask who Sammy is and how Dean lost him—but he leaves it alone, seeing the pain painted so clearly on Dean’s face. “Well, my mom died, and my dad left, too. I was probably around ten, and I don’t know why, but I thought it would be a good idea to take my floaty out to the beach by myself. I couldn’t swim then, either, by the way.” He stops for a moment and swallows back the lump in his throat. “Let’s just say the storm came in fast and hard and my mom had to come get me. She brought me to shore, but a wave came in and dragged her back out. I never saw her alive again.” His eyebrows knit together, and he wrings his hands, staring sightlessly into the water as the weight of trauma comes back in full force, suffocating him with guilt and loss. “I don’t want to talk about myself anymore,” he whispers.

A laugh bursts from Dean, seemingly out of nowhere, and Castiel’s head whips around in time to see him shaking his head as he leans back on his elbows. “We’re just a couple of sad fuckers, aren’t we?”

Castiel can’t help the twitch in his lips as he lowers himself to his elbows beside Dean. “At least the view is nice,” he offers, not sure why he says it. It’s true, though, so he doesn’t take it back.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his eyes flicking over Castiel’s face. “There’s always that.”

They talk well into the dark, steering clear of touchy subjects and keeping things light. Castiel laughs more than he probably ever has, feeling a bubbly kind of happiness expand in his chest as he presses up close to Dean in the chilly nighttime air.

When Castiel starts to shiver, Dean decides that it’s time for them to pack it in, and he wraps the blanket around Castiel’s shoulders, carrying the basket in one hand, and holding Castiel’s hand with the other. They navigate through the woods, moving even more carefully in the dark, but eventually they break through the trees and Dean starts up the car so Castiel can get warm as he packs away the picnic basket.

The drive home is filled with nothing in particular, only simple conversation that has Castiel floating for the entire drive. Everything just seems so easy with Dean. Easy in a way that Castiel’s never had before—in a way that terrifies him even as it excites him.

They pull into Castiel’s driveway far too soon and Castiel takes his sweet time getting out. He folds up the blanket and sets it neatly in the backseat, all while Dean watches with that damn smirk on his face.

Castiel turns back to him, their eyes meeting in the dark. “So, are you going to walk me to my door, or what?” he asks, raising a teasing eyebrow at Dean, who immediately jumps out of the car with a startled _oh_. Castiel can only chuckle as he watches Dean scramble to open his door.

“You’re not going to be one of those high-maintenance island boys, are you?” Dean asks, taking Castiel’s hand and tangling their fingers together as they make their way around the house, in no real hurry to get there.

“I just might be. Is that going to be a problem, Mr. Winchester?” Castiel fights back a grin as he turns to face Dean on his porch. There’s only about a foot of space between them, but still, it feels too far, especially when Dean smiles an adorable, crooked smile.

“Hey, no problems here.”

“Good,” Castiel whispers as his eyes fall to the plush curve of Dean’s lips. He watches Dean’s smile grow as he steps in, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist as Castiel’s move around Dean’s shoulders. They breathe each other’s air and Castiel finds that he never wants this moment to end—the moment before they kiss, where everything is excitement and anticipation—where the thrill of what’s to come hits its peak. 

Castiel kisses him.

It’s soft and slow—everything their first kiss wasn’t—but it’s perfect all the same. Dean’s hands fist in the back of his shirt and Castiel pulls him in closer, craving the press of Dean’s chest against his own. 

Castiel’s hands slide to Dean’s cheeks, stroking over the stubble growing there before he pulls away, smirking when Dean follows him, before eventually pulling back.

“I had a nice time,” Castiel tells him as he takes half a step back, putting some space between them before he’s unable to move away.

“Will I see you again?” Dean asks, his voice slightly breathier than Castiel expects. 

Castiel chuckles softly. “Yeah, at work tomorrow—don’t be late.” He steps back more fully, placing a hand on Dean’s chest to keep him away. “I get to plan the next one.”

Dean only nods.

“Goodnight,” Castiel breathes, opening the screen door, and, for once, the sound doesn’t grate on his nerves. He steps inside, watching through the tiny window as Dean shakes his head—a grin on his face—before spinning on his heel and rounding the house.

Castiel listens until the rumble of the Impala fades in the distance—a giddy smile on his face and happiness in his heart.

  
_As Castiel lies in bed that night, entirely too happy to believe it’s real, a dark car rumbles on the edge of the shore, its deep growl drowning out the sounds of its sole occupant as he sobs—crying for everything he’s at risk to lose._


	6. I'm Yours If You're Mine

**Time After: 1 month, 1 week**

The man they call The Doctor comes to visit almost every day. Castiel doesn’t mind him, but he wishes he could just be left alone. He asks Castiel questions—most of which Castiel doesn’t hear—but he doesn’t force him to answer, which is alright. 

Castiel sits on the bed and looks at the floor, lost in his thoughts of a faraway place—white sand and palm trees… apple pie and hazelnut coffee… fresh laundry and the ocean breeze. It’s all just so _ comforting _to him, so he focuses on that.

He doesn’t notice when the doctor leaves—he never does—but now he’s alone and his room is getting darker by the minute. 

“_Do you remember when we slept on the beach?_” The words drift into Castiel’s ears and he knows they’re not his own, though he doesn’t know who they belong to. He sits up a little straighter—listens a little bit harder. “_We were drunk on the beach and you fell asleep, so we stayed there for a few hours._” 

Castiel doesn’t remember this—or anything, actually—but the voice has his breath catching. 

“_ I watched you the whole time. You make this little… sniffling sound when you sleep. It’s adorable, really. _ ” The voice fades at the end, before coming back stronger. “ _ I love you, still, okay? I love you, I love you, I love y—_”

“Alright!” The door swings open and a booming voice interrupts the other as a gentleman in blue pushes through with a cart filled with food. 

Castiel panics. “No,” he whispers, listening hard for the other voice, but it’s gone. “No!” he says, louder this time as he stands, spinning wildly like maybe he can _ catch _ the voice. There’s nothing there, though, and he turns on the startled man in the doorway. “No, no, no!” Castiel’s voice shakes, as do his hands, but he can’t help it as anger and loss and _ pain _seize him. 

The man stumbles out of the room as Castiel continues to yell, pulling the door shut behind him. He left the food, though, and Castiel grabs the first thing on the tray. He hurls it across the room, seeing through tear-filled eyes as mashed potatoes splatter on the wall before the plate hits the floor.

Castiel sinks to his knees, bracing himself with both hands on the cool tile as he listens hard. He stays like that for hours—eyes closed, head bowed—but the voice doesn’t come back.

His arms give out and he collapses, curling up on the floor as silent tears fall.

**Time Left: 5 months, 1 week, 1 day**

It’s not quite seven-thirty and the café is empty, as it usually is at this time, and Castiel is bored, having sent Hannah home early. Normally, he’d be cleaning or prepping or restocking, but he already _ did _ all that, like, _ two hours ago_. 

Yeah, it’s been a slow day.

He jumps when someone knocks on the counter in front of him where’s he’s been leaning for who knows how long. 

“Cassie, darling. Haven’t heard from you in a while.” Balthazar smiles from across the counter when Castiel straightens up. He looks the same as he always does, but there’s a bit of uncertainty in his eyes. “I thought you would’ve called me at some point when I was in town the last time, what happened?”

Castiel clears his throat, suddenly very uncomfortable, as he turns his attention back to rinsing coffee pots. 

“I, uh…I’m sorry,” Castiel says, glancing at him briefly before looking away, but it’s long enough to catch the hurt shining in his eyes. “I was… preoccupied.”

“Oh, well if you’re not busy come closing time,” Balthazar says as he checks his watch. “We could grab some dinner? Maybe a movie?” His smile turns lascivious. “Or we could skip all that and just head back to yours?”

Castiel stops what he’s doing and closes his eyes with a sigh. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to do this at all, not to mention so soon. He runs through the speech he’d prepared for this moment before turning to face Balthazar. “Bal, you know you’re a dear friend to me, and I don’t want this to change that, but we can’t have sex anymore.” Castiel nods once but he can’t quite meet Balthazar’s eyes.

Balthazar doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his face screws up into confused amusement. “I don’t understand, Cassie. How can we be friends with benefits, without the _ benefits_? That makes no sense.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, and Castiel can see that he’s trying not to let this faze him. 

Castiel sighs again and runs his fingers through his hair. This isn’t something he’s ever had to do with Balthazar; neither of them has ever been in a serious relationship that required _ exclusivity _ before. But with Dean… Castiel can’t even _ imagine _having sex with someone else, so Balthazar needs to know.

“I’m…uh—I’m seeing someone.” The words drop between them like a stone, heavy in their meaning, but Balthazar doesn’t seem to be getting it.

“I’m good with a threesome—you know that! Ask him to join. Or her, you know I don’t discriminate.” He shoots Castiel a wink before leaning on the counter, both arms crossed in front of him. “So, nine o’clock?”

Castiel growls, narrowing his eyes. He knows Balthazar is just being an ass, and usually, Castiel finds it amusing—Balthazar says it gets Castiel riled up, which makes the sex hotter—but right now, he just wants to go home to Dean.

“No. No, I’m not doing that. _ We _aren’t doing that anymore. No.” Castiel shakes his head and turns away, wiping at an imaginary spot on the counter.

“You’re serious,” Balthazar says after a few moments of silence. “You really—you’re serious.”

“Yeah,” Castiel whispers, not bothering to turn around as he reorganizes some of the mugs on the shelf so they’re facing outward.

“Oh… well, alright, then.” Balthazar drums his fingers on the counter, and Castiel turns around to face him, giving him a small shrug when their eyes meet. “Best of luck to you. I hope you’re happy.” He ducks his head and takes a step back as Castiel forces a smile.

“Thank you. I’ll see you around.” He watches as Balthazar leaves the café, knowing he probably won’t see him again—not for a while anyway—and an ache forms in his chest at the thought.

Castiel leans against the counter and closes his eyes. He wants to call Gabriel. Or Dean—but Dean is dealing with a parking issue at his apartment, so he settles for his brother. 

The phone rings twice before Gabriel answers, sounding just as chipper and infuriating as ever. “Hey, baby bro! What’s up?” 

“Oh, you know, just running our business.”

“What? Running it into the ground?” Gabriel snarks.

“Shut up,” Castiel says, but he can’t help the smile forcing its way onto his face. It’s good to hear his brother’s voice; he doesn’t get to see him much outside of his self-allotted five island visits a year—maximum. 

“How are things with Dean-o? Heard you two, you know… got it _ on_.” Castiel rolls his eyes and pushes himself away from the counter to finish rinsing the coffee pots. He holds them up to the light, noticing some stains, so he does a full clean, using coffee pot soap and everything.

“Yep,” Castiel says, scrubbing the pots with the rounded brush. “We, uh… we’re together now.” Castiel knows it’s coming, so he pulls the phone away from his ear and sets it on the counter as Gabriel whoops and shouts. Castiel shakes his head, rinsing out the coffee pots one more time before bringing the phone back to his ear when the yelling quiets down.

“I’m taking credit for this, you know?” Gabriel pants. Something clatters on the other end of the line and Gabriel curses. “This is _ my _doing, and you aren’t taking that away from me.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” He wanders around the tables, pushing in chairs and readjusting salt and pepper shakers, before looking at the clock—ten more minutes. “We had a date yesterday,” Castiel says, and it comes out a lot more hesitantly than he had meant it to. He swallows hard and looks down at the floor. “Gabe—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath and pushing his fingers through his hair. He knows Gabriel gets it, even if Castiel doesn’t say the words. Gabriel knows how terrified Castiel is of _ anything _good, and how he’s scared he’ll mess everything up.

“It’s fine, baby brother. I don’t take Dean as the type that scares easy.” Castiel tries to let that sink in. He wants to believe Gabriel—to take his brother at his word and put his fears to rest—but Gabriel also isn’t _ here_. He doesn’t know how often Castiel has to fight it—his own mind and thoughts and _ feelings_. Gabriel just… isn’t here.

Castiel decides to let it go for now as he does a last-minute check around the café for anything that needs to be done—there’s nothing—before locking the door and turning off the ‘open’ sign. “How are things with you? How’s Kali?”

“Same old shit, different day. She wants to go on another trip,” Gabriel sighs and it echoes over the line. “We’re going to Europe next week, so I won’t be around to entertain.”

Castiel chuckles despite himself as he grabs his wallet and keys and leaves for the night, double-checking that the back door is locked before heading for home. “Don’t act like you’d be here anyway.” The sun is sinking in the sky but it’ll be a while yet before the streetlights come on. Castiel loves this time of night when it starts to cool down and everyone has gone home. It’s peaceful—the way he likes to think of his island.

“Hey! I could surprise you—you never know.” The indignant tone of voice is funny, really, since the last time Gabriel stepped foot in Sandover was the day he hired Dean. Castiel thinks that might be the longest time Gabriel has been sober while here in… well, _ years. _ “Speaking of surprises…”

Castiel drops his head back and groans. “God, Gabe—_no_.”

Gabriel only laughs. “_ Yes_, little brother. Trivia!”

Castiel can’t really get mad at that—he loves trivia—but Gabriel doesn’t need to know about his secret excitement. “You can get your ass down here and run it, then, and _ I’ll _take your wife to Europe,” Castiel grumbles, and his brother barks out a laugh.

“Deal. You just get yourself on that big ol’ boat and meet her at the airport, and I’ll run the business while you’re living it up in Paris.”

“You know, now that I think about it, you’d probably just burn the place down,” he says, grinning as he walks up the path along the side of his house. A rush of excitement hits him as he passes the Impala in his driveway. 

“So little faith in me,” Gabriel tuts as a shout echoes down the line. There’s a loud crash, then a door closes, and Castiel narrows his eyes. 

“Are you at work?” Castiel asks though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“Never mind that,” Gabriel says, dismissive as ever, and Castiel just shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

As he rounds the corner, Gabriel rambling on about appetizers and drinks for trivia night, his eyes land on Dean sitting on his front porch, his feet propped up on the railing, with his head tipped back, fast asleep. Castiel can’t help his fond smile as Dean shifts, his nose wrinkling as a fly tickles it, before settling down again with a soft hum.

Castiel moves to stand beside him, staring down at him as Gabriel goes quiet in his ear. “Cassie?” he says, but Castiel doesn’t answer as he shoves Dean’s feet to the ground, holding back his laughter when Dean jerks awake, his eyes widening as he lets out an alarmed squeak.

Dean’s eyes fly to Castiel’s and he scowls. “Asshole,” he snaps, before getting to his feet and stretching his arms high above his head. His shirt lifts a little, revealing a strip of tanned skin, and Castiel can’t help but stare.

“Is that Dean-o? Let me talk to him,” Gabriel says, and Castiel rolls his eyes as he hands over his phone. Dean takes it with a bemused look in his eyes, but Castiel steps past him and unlocks the door.

“Uh, hello?” he hears Dean say, but the rest of their conversation is lost as he steps inside and kicks off his shoes, leaving Dean on the porch.

With a soft sigh, he tosses his keys into the seashell bowl by the door and drags his feet to his couch, flopping down face-first on the cushions. God, he’s so tired. This is why he doesn’t work alone very often, even when the café is dead. He feels like he could sleep for a year, lost in his own dreams where he doesn’t have to worry about the world around him. He thinks it’d be nice, but, as the door opens and Dean walks through—laughing and chatting with his brother over trivial things—he thinks some things are worth being awake for.

“Alright, I’ll make sure he doesn’t kill anyone. Okay, bye, Gabriel.” Castiel smiles, but opening his eyes would take too much effort, so he doesn’t. “Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Dean whispers as he slides between Castiel and the back of the couch, rolling him over so that Castiel’s back is tucked against Dean’s chest. “I’m bored.”

“Where were you when I was bored?” Castiel grumbles, snuggling deeper into Dean’s embrace.

“Slow day?” Dean nuzzles his nose into the side of Castiel’s neck, pressing soft kisses along his throat.

“The slowest,” Castiel sighs, tilting his head to give Dean better access. “Balthazar came in,” he says, far more hesitantly than he wants to sound.

“Oh yeah?” There’s nothing in Dean’s voice to suggest that this is anything to worry about, and he’s right, but Castiel still feels his arms tighten around him. “What’d he want?”

“He, uh… he wanted what he usually wants—sex.” Castiel closes his eyes and cringes at how that sounded. His heart pounds with worry. Worry that Dean will be mad—that he’ll get jealous and leave—but Dean remains calm.

“What’d you say?”

“No, of course.” He rolls over to face Dean, meeting green eyes that are far more unsure than his voice let on. 

Dean looks down, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes as he speaks. He traces patterns on Castiel’s back and wraps his legs around him. “I know we haven’t talked about this,” Dean whispers, swallowing hard as he glances briefly up into Castiel’s eyes. “But I don’t—I want you to myself. I don’t want to share you.”

Castiel’s heart gives a hard thump in his chest and warmth floods his veins. Dean seems to be forcing himself to meet Castiel’s gaze, so Castiel speaks quickly, not wanting Dean to feel uncertain any longer than he already has. 

“You have me,” he whispers, smiling softly. “I’m yours if you’re mine.”

The smile that lights up Dean’s face is all the answer he needs, but Dean still murmurs against his lips, “I’m yours.” They kiss, then, their lips molding together, and it’s slow… gentle and sweet. It’s everything they both need in that moment and Castiel soaks it in before Dean pulls away. “So… trivia night?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Fucking, _ Gabriel_.”


	7. Butterfly Beach Pie

**Time After: 1 month, 1 week, 5 days**

Something is changing. 

Something big and important and crucial is changing but Castiel doesn’t know what or how or why. He can hardly tell at first—it happens so slowly—but the more time passes, the less he sleeps, kept awake by the fear of sleep. Or rather, what comes with sleep. People he doesn’t know and pain he can’t bear. He hates it, but every time he tries to tell anyone, his words get caught in his throat and choke him.

He’s in the sitting room now, though he doesn’t remember getting there. He was in his room only a moment ago. There are so many people in here, but he pays them little attention and finds a seat by the window.

His thoughts drift, never sticking in one place for too long. The ladies and gentlemen in blue seem excited, and they look at him a lot with wide smiles, but he ignores them, too. He wants to do something, but he doesn’t know what. 

His eyes drift to the piano in the corner and something a little bit like longing bubbles in his chest. He turns away.

Bit by bit, the earth tears away at the sun and Castiel can’t help the tears that well in his eyes, though, again, he doesn’t know why. He’s too tired to try to figure any of this out. 

He wishes he could sleep. 

He wishes he never needed sleep. 

He doesn’t sleep.

That night, when he _ does _drift off, the nightmares come, as they do, and again, he drowns. He drowns, and someone screams. Someone that isn’t him and, somehow, that’s even more terrifying.

He doesn’t ask about the new clothes or the scratches marring his chest and arms. He doesn’t ask about his sore throat and aching eyes. He doesn’t ask about anything.

**Time Left: 5 months, 6 days**

Castiel shows up extra early at the café the next morning, having been too nervous to sleep. He tossed and turned from two o’clock onward until finally deciding an hour later to get a head start on the little surprise he has planned for Dean.

Before heading to bed, he’d thought long and hard about their date—about how easy it felt in comparison to literally everything else in his life—and he came to the absolutely terrifying conclusion that he could very well fall in love with the likes of Dean Winchester, and not even realize how it all happened.

So, he’s decided to bake for him.

Castiel has no idea why, really—he just knows Dean’s got a major sweet tooth and loves Castiel’s pecan pie. 

So, he fires up the ovens, pulls out the pastry, and gets to work.

“Damn, it smells fucking amazing in here, Cas!” Dean says as he steps through the café’s staff entrance five hours later, spreading his arms wide, tipping his head back, and closing his eyes as he inhales deeply through his nose. 

Castiel can only roll his eyes as he fights back a smile when Dean makes a show of his knees buckling.

“God, that’s gotta be better than sex. It’s gotta be,” he says, shaking his head as he moves to stand behind Castiel where he sets the pies on the cooling racks. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Castiel whispers as Dean slides his hands around his waist—his fingers brushing over Castiel’s hip bones before gliding across his stomach as his chin tucks into his shoulder.

“Hmm, really?” Dean hums as Castiel tries to break free of his hold to get the rest of the pies out of the oven before they burn.

“Really,” he murmurs when he successfully untangles himself—he misses the contact as soon as it’s gone—and shoots Dean a sly wink.

“Ooh, is it a sexy surprise?” He waggles his eyebrows with a wicked grin before his eyes widen as something seems to occur to him. “Wait, are you wearing panties, because if you are, I’m gonna—”

“What? No! Dean, it has nothing to do with sex, you fiend!” Castiel chuckles when Dean’s bottom lip sticks out in a pout, but he doesn’t offer any other form of complaint, instead, choosing to bounce along behind Castiel as he pulls muffin trays from the oven and sets them on the counter.

“So… what is it, then? Is it food? Oh, it’s food, isn’t it? God, I love food…” 

Castiel rolls his eyes but ignores him in favor of frosting some cupcakes. Dean leans back against the counter beside Castiel and dips his finger in the bowl of chocolate frosting before jerking away with a hiss when Castiel smacks his hand with his wooden spoon.

“Don’t _ touch_,” Castiel snarls, giving Dean his deadliest glare before turning back to his frosting.

“Fine, meanie.” 

Castiel doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Dean eventually wanders off to do his job when he realizes that Castiel isn’t going to tell him. Castiel is almost glad for it as his heart pounds against his rib cage. He wants to tell Dean _ so _bad, but more than that, he wants to see the look on Dean’s face when he actually gives it to him.

So, he keeps working, pushing off the fluttering of butterflies every time his nerves try to get the better of him.

The day is long and hot and _busy_. It seems like everyone on the island thought it’d be a good idea to pop in for a cool glass of lemonade and the slight breeze they get up on the cliffside. Castiel can’t say he blames them, or that he prefers when it’s slower. This way, he has no time to be nervous.

Despite all his reservations regarding Dean in the beginning, he has quickly become part of the team, all of them moving fluidly in and around each other like a well-oiled machine, and Castiel hates to admit that he was wrong, but… well—he was.

Closing time arrives faster than Castiel could’ve seen coming and he’s counting the register as Charlie locks up and Dean finishes with the kitchen cleanup. He tries his hardest to ignore the butterflies rioting in his stomach, but the closer the clock ticks to the end of their day, the more he feels himself choking on them.

He slips the money into his cash bag and heads for his office, glancing briefly at Dean as he whistles a tune while he mops, his hair damp with sweat and his tanned skin made pale under the fluorescent lights.

After locking away the money in the safe, he enters the amount in his spreadsheet before saving it and shutting down the computer. There’s nothing left to do but leave. 

It’s time.

He wrings his hands nervously as he shuffles out of the office and closes the door behind him. Dean has finished mopping and isn’t around, but he can hear rustling from the break room, so he hurries for the fridge, grabbing the pecan pie he’d baked so early this morning and setting it on the workspace where Dean can’t miss it.

The yellow Post-it stares back at him as his heart crawls into his throat. _ This was a bad idea. A _ really _ bad idea. _

He wants to take it back—to put the pie back in the fridge and tear up the Post-it so no one will ever know what it says but him. And he’s about to, but then there’s Dean with his messy hair and lively green eyes. 

He’s grinning at Cas as he steps through the door, his sunglasses pushed back on his head and his leather jacket slung over one arm. He looks breathtaking—too beautiful for Castiel to be allowed to keep for himself.

“What’s that?” Dean asks, his eyes zeroing in on the pie as soon as he steps more fully into the kitchen. Dean’s eyes narrow on the note as he bites his bottom lip, frowning.

“It’s your surprise,” Castiel almost whispers, a small shrug jerking his shoulders as he, too, chews on his bottom lip. “It’s um… yeah, it’s for you.” He stumbles over his words as he throws one hand out in an awkward gesture at the pie.

Dean picks up the note, reading carefully as Castiel forces himself to stand still and wait for him to finish. He doesn’t want to; he _ wants _to turn around and run as fast as he can. But he doesn’t. He stays.

“‘Thank you for the wonderful date. I’d love to share this with you on the beach tonight.’ Couldn’t you have just asked me without the note?” Dean asks, looking up at Castiel with a raised eyebrow and amusement painted all over his stupidly handsome face.

Another awkward jerk of Castiel’s shoulders. “Didn’t think I could get the words out, honestly.” He can’t meet Dean’s eyes as his cheeks flame, the heat rising from his chest to swell up his neck and above the cover of his collared shirt.

Dean huffs a small laugh and Castiel just _ knows _he’s shaking his head, but all he says is, “I’ll drive us.”

“We need our swimsuits,” Castiel jumps in. It’s still insanely hot out and Castiel wouldn’t be at all surprised if the beach were still packed even this late in the day. The sun doesn’t set for a while longer, so they shouldn’t have any problems going to the beach for an evening swim and some pecan pie.

“I’ll just borrow a pair of yours.” Dean shrugs, sliding the pie off the counter and onto the palm of his other hand.

Castiel scowls. “I don’t want your sweaty balls in my swimsuit,” he gripes and a startled laugh bursts from Dean.

“Seriously? You didn’t seem to mind when I was _ balls _deep in your ass. Besides, you don’t even swim.”

Castiel can only grumble indignantly because Dean _ is _right. Castiel’s just being grumpy and he knows it—perhaps the leftover nerves from the surprise.

“C’mon, you cranky bastard, I want to see your beach bod before the sun goes down.” 

Castiel yelps as a sharp crack fills the air and a sting radiates through his ass cheek. He glares back at Dean as he laughs with his head thrown back.

“You’re fucking fired, you asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, boss-man.”

With the sun still blazing hot in the sky, they lie on their backs with their towels stretched under them and their stomachs full to bursting. The empty pie tray sits a few feet away, covered in cellophane and forgotten in the wake of their food comas. 

Dean groans beside him, one hand thrown over his stomach and the other over his eyes. Castiel watches him with a small, yet warm smile, pleased with himself to no end.

The pie was delicious, but Castiel can’t honestly say that the sight of Dean in nothing but Castiel’s swim shorts isn’t one hundred times better. He’s large and muscular and _tanned_, and all Castiel wants to do is rip off those shorts and have his wicked way with him right here in the sand.

He wants Dean again—_bad_—and he’s been going crazy thinking about the next time he can have him in his bed. The first time was absolutely _mind-blowing_, so Castiel can only imagine how good it’ll be the second time, knowing each other better than before.

He shifts in the sand just thinking about it.

“Stop staring—it’s creepy,” Dean mumbles, not bothering to look over at him as a smile tugs at the corners of Dean’s lips.

“Oh, fuck off,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes and fighting back a laugh. “You love when I look at you, you vain bastard.” 

Dean only shrugs in response as one corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk. 

“Besides, I’m only looking at the smear of pecan pie on your chin.” Not exactly true, but he _does _have some on his chin. Castiel leans over and licks up the side of Dean’s face, tasting sweat and salt and sugar and _Dean_. Damn, that must be the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“What the fuck, _ Cas_?” Dean shouts, scrambling away as he wipes at his face, but Castiel can see the way he forces back a grin. The bastard loves the attention and Castiel _ knows it_.

“Quit your bitching,” he whispers as he pulls Dean in again, trapping his chin between his index finger and thumb as he jerks him forward. Their lips meet in a sloppy, smacking kiss that has Dean’s affronted mood disappearing in a flash. 

Dean moves closer, sitting up taller and turning to face him as he brings his hand up to Castiel’s cheek, kissing him back with matched enthusiasm.

They kiss for who knows how long and when they pull away, they’re both panting hard. “Come back to my place,” Castiel breathes, soaking in Dean’s lust-filled green eyes—his pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed. Dean can only nod as he scrambles to his feet, gathering their towels as Castiel grabs the empty pie tin.

They’re back at Castiel’s house in less than ten minutes and stumbling through the creaky screen door not long after, their towels and shirts forgotten in the backseat of Dean’s car, their sandals abandoned on the porch in their impatience.

Their kisses slow as Castiel walks them through the entryway, past the kitchen, and to his closed bedroom doors. He pushes Dean up against them, taking his time has he explores his mouth with his tongue, his fingers traveling over the expanse of Dean’s naked chest, following the ridges and valleys. Dean shivers under his touch as Castiel scrapes his fingernails down Dean’s sides, raising goosebumps as he goes.

They’re both breathing hard when Castiel pulls away, kissing along Dean’s jaw and down the slope of his neck, relishing in the hitching inhales and breathy moans that escape him.

“The bed, or…” Castiel asks as he sucks a hickey into the space where Dean’s neck and shoulder meet, tasting salty sweat under his tongue.

“How ’bout the kitchen island?” Dean pants, nodding back in the direction they came from.

Castiel pulls his face out of Dean’s neck with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk. “The kitchen island, huh?” He slides his hands over Dean’s hips, back toward his ass, where he slips his hands under Dean’s shorts and grips hard, dragging him forward. 

They moan in tandem when their hips meet, creating the most delicious friction on their aching cocks before Dean starts steering Castiel backward. 

When Castiel’s back hits the edge of the island, he spins them around, pinning Dean against the counter with his hands on his hips as he leans forward, reveling in Dean’s sharp inhales when he runs his tongue up the pulsating vein along his neck before sucking another bruise just below the hinge of his jaw.

“You need to get naked—_now_,” Dean growls, shoving at Castiel’s shorts until they’re around his knees, freeing his hard cock so that it stands proud between them. 

Dean’s fingers curl around him, stroking lightly as Castiel’s jaw goes slack and his eyes grow heavy. He rests his forehead on Dean’s chest, tipping his head down so that he can watch Dean work him. Pleasure builds and swells at the base of his spine and in the pit of his stomach, turning circles with every stroke of Dean’s palm over his length—every swirl of his thumb across the leaking tip. 

Castiel’s knees dip and his breath bursts from him when Dean’s other hand moves into his hair, giving it a sharp tug before he sinks to his knees, looking up at Castiel with wide, lust-filled green eyes, his plush lips forming a perfect pout as he leans in, only inches from Castiel’s cock.

With the first flick of Dean’s tongue over the swollen head, Castiel thinks he might come right then and there, but he holds off as Dean’s mouth closes around him, his head bobbing in time with his pumping fist as pleasure sparks in Castiel’s veins, lighting him up from the inside out. 

He braces one hand on the counter and sinks the other into Dean’s hair, tugging it lightly as Dean sucks him in, taking him to the back of his throat and moaning, sending rippling vibrations up Castiel’s cock in a way that has his stomach flipping.

_ Oh God, oh God, oh God, I’m gonna come… _Castiel thinks as he pulls Dean off his dick with a pop, and if that isn’t the hottest fucking sound…

Dean’s lips are swollen and red as Castiel hauls him back to his feet, spinning him around roughly as he bends him over the counter and tugs his shorts down and off before kicking away his own, leaving them both completely naked in the middle of his kitchen. Dean lets out a startled grunt but doesn’t protest, bending right over the counter like he was made for just this—his perfectly round ass sticking out for Castiel to admire. 

Oh, and does he ever _ admire _it. 

Cupping Dean’s ass in his hands, he massages both cheeks, pulling them apart to tease at Dean’s hole with his thumbs and smirking triumphantly when a needy whimper escapes Dean’s lips as he lays his head down on the counter, cheek pressed to the cool marble.

Castiel licks his thumb before gently grazing it over Dean’s puckered hole, watching him clench tight at the contact. He does it again, pressing more firmly this time as Dean whimpers and wriggles.

“You like that? Do you like when I play with your hole, Dean?” Castiel purrs before pressing down harder, not hard enough to enter, but just enough for Dean to feel the pressure. 

Dean’s breath hitches as his eyes close, his hips tilting into Castiel’s touch—begging for more.

“Say it,” he barks and Dean’s eyes snap open as Castiel pushes his thumb in harder. “Say you like it, baby.”

“I fuckin’ love it,” he pants before squeezing his eyes shut on a small cry when Castiel pushes past the tight ring of muscle. He’s panting hard—practically writhing against the counter—as Castiel smooths one hand over Dean’s hip and up his side before moving it back to his ass cheek to spread him open.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Castiel says in a low voice as he pulls his thumb out, and Dean whimpers at the loss. “Don’t you dare move; I’ll be right back.”

Castiel hurries to his room, making quick work of fishing lube and a condom from his nightstand. He pauses for a moment, looking down at the foil packages scattered in his nightstand, and decides to grab one more before heading back out to the kitchen where Dean is bent over the counter exactly as Castiel had left him. Good.

“Here,” he says, tossing the extra condom at Dean. “Put this on.”

Dean’s lust-filled eyes meet his, confusion evident as he glances at the condom on the island in front of him. “What?”

“Put it on,” Castiel repeats, setting his own aside for the time being.

“_ Why_?” Dean’s face screws up as he looks from Castiel to the condom before picking it up between two fingers and examining it.

“’Cause we’re in my fucking kitchen, Dean,” Castiel huffs as he steps in behind Dean and spreads his cheeks, coating one finger in lube before circling his hole. 

Dean’s breath hitches as he widens his stance and tilts his ass up so Castiel can have better access, which he takes full advantage of. “S-so?” he stutters, fighting to keep his composure as Castiel teases him.

Castiel rolls his eyes, but one side of his mouth turns up in a lopsided grin. “I don’t need to accidentally smear my toast in your _ mess_.” He turns up his nose, his mouth pinching as he shudders, before shoving the thought away.

“You’re so fucking weird,” Dean murmurs, but rolls the condom on, anyway. His voice has a certain fondness to it, though.

Castiel doesn’t waste any time in pushing his finger in, sliding steadily inward until he bottoms out as Dean whimpers and squirms. With every sound Dean makes, the fire in Castiel is stoked higher until he, too, is panting, so caught up in it all that he forgets that this is only their second time—that they haven’t even known each other that long—because it feels like the hundredth time—the thousandth, even—with how comfortable he feels being with Dean. It’s the most natural thing in the world.

He coats another finger in lube and pushes that one in, too, stretching and scissoring them before finding Dean’s prostate and pressing down—_hard_.

Dean yelps, his hips jerking wildly as his high-pitched whines turn into low, drawn-out moans. He grinds his hips back into Castiel’s fingers as he adds a third, gripping his hip with his other hand to try and hold him still.

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop moving, I’ll fucking spank you,” Castiel growls.

Dean moans loudly, rocking his hips as he grips the counter’s edge tighter. “Yes… please, God, please… fuck, spank me…”

Castiel stops for a moment, shocked by Dean’s response, and grips the base of his cock _ hard _to keep himself from coming as pleasure so intense it’s almost blinding blazes through him.

When he has himself under control, he pulls his free hand back, connecting with the creamy flesh of Dean’s ass as he thrusts his fingers hard inside him. Dean _yells_, his mouth opening wide as he squeezes his eyes shut. His knees shake as Castiel watches him, rubbing his palm over the angry red flesh before pulling his hand back again.

He hits him a little harder this time, a thrill of pleasure sparking through him as Dean shouts louder, his entire body jerking as he trembles.

“Okay… okay, stop. I’m—I’m gonna—” 

Castiel clamps a hand around the base of Dean’s cock to keep him from coming, ignoring the needy whines that fall from Dean’s lips.

When he’s almost positive Dean’s not going to explode, he removes his hand and finishes stretching him open. Castiel is done teasing now, and he scissors his fingers and stretches Dean relentlessly.

“Cas, I’m—I’m ready… please, just—please…” Dean’s panting and shaking, his knees dipping every time Castiel’s fingertips graze over his prostate, and he knows Dean’s not too far off his orgasm.

Castiel pulls his fingers out and pats Dean’s ass. “Bend over more,” he instructs before helping Dean shuffle back another few steps, putting Dean’s ass on display and spreading his cheeks, opening him up even more.

Castiel takes a moment to just look at him—his legs spread wide, his flushed and heaving chest splayed across Castiel’s counter, and his panting breaths leaving clouds of condensation on the marble with every exhaled breath—God, he’s so beautiful. How did Castiel ever catch the attention of a man like this in the first place?

Something soft and warm melts in his chest—something so powerful and overwhelming that Castiel almost doesn’t know what to do with it—and he takes deep, calming breaths to ease the panic rising in his throat. He looks at Dean. 

Wasting no time with the condom, he gets it rolled on and his cock slicked up with more lube before moving in behind Dean.

Castiel loves rough sex—the scratching and clawing and biting—he loves the desperation of it, but right now, he wants to _ worship _Dean—to kiss every part of his body and make him feel loved and cared for while taking him apart slowly with every touch and every kiss. 

So, he does.

The change in pace startles Dean, and his eyes flick over his shoulder to meet Castiel’s when he runs gentle fingers over the small of Dean’s back, tickling his fingers up his spine before grazing them back down his sides, one gripping his hip as the other moves to his own cock, taking it in hand as he lines himself up to Dean’s prepped hole.

Castiel pushes in slowly, breaching the tight ring of muscle to the sound of Dean’s soft whimpers. “Tell me if it’s too much,” Castiel says as he leans over Dean, pressing his chest flush to Dean’s back as one hand moves to grip his hair—not exactly pulling, but just holding it in a loose grip.

“No, k-keep going,” Dean stutters, rolling his hips as Castiel pushes in deeper, relishing in the way Dean’s inner muscles clench and spasm around the intrusion. “G-god, Cas. Never knew it felt so good.”

Castiel can only chuckle, remembering how he had thought the exact same thing when he had bottomed with Dean for the first time. With the grip he has on Dean’s hair, he turns his head so he can reach Dean’s lips, kissing him long and deep, distracting him as he thrusts the rest of the way in, bottoming out as Dean lets out a sharp cry before biting down hard on his own bottom lip. 

Castiel stills, waiting for him to adjust to the feeling. “Tell me when you’re ready,” Castiel pants, running soothing fingers up and down Dean’s side. Dean’s eyes are squeezed tight and Castiel can see the teeth marks in his bottom lip when he releases it, but he’s not telling him he needs to stop, so Castiel stays still, waiting patiently even as his own body trembles with the need to _ move_.

They’re both dripping with sweat, slicking the counter beneath them in the humid night air. The sky outside the windows is a deep red, casting a haunting glow over Dean’s tanned skin, and once again, Castiel thinks of how beautiful Dean is—all the time, but especially like this.

“Okay,” Dean breathes shakily. “I’m—I’m ready. You can move.” He meets Castiel’s eyes and Castiel sees his own feelings reflected back at him—excitement, lust, and something else he’s not quite sure how to name—something he’s too terrified to put into words.

Castiel shifts his hips, pulling out fractionally before sliding back in as Dean moans softly in the back of his throat. Castiel pulls out a little more this time before pushing smoothly back in and they both moan a little louder.

He does this a few more times, careful not to push back in too fast, not wanting to hurt Dean. 

“I’m not fucking fragile, Cas. _ Fuck _me,” Dean growls, punching his hips back as Castiel thrusts back in. Pleasure shoots from his stomach to his cock and his knees wobble as a moan tumbles from his lips.

“Okay, fuck.” Castiel’s hand in Dean’s hair grips tighter and he widens his stance as his other hand moves to Dean’s hip, squeezing tight.

He pulls out slowly, inch by aching inch, before slamming in hard and fast as Dean shouts, his fingers clawing at the smooth marble. Castiel does this again and again, setting up a punishing rhythm as he buries his face in Dean’s neck, sucking hickey after hickey into his skin as Dean moans and whimpers and whines, greedy as he takes what Castiel gives him.

“Fuck, Cas… never… topping… again…” he breathes and Castiel chuckles into his skin, nipping playfully as he kisses his way up to Dean’s ear before sucking his earlobe between his lips. Dean moans deep in his throat, rolling his hips faster as his breath catches.

“No fair,” Castiel mock-whines, pulling Dean’s head back by his grip on his hair. He meets Dean’s eyes, matching his grin before kissing him hard and deep, his tongue thrusting in time with his hips as Dean starts to shake apart beneath him.

Dean pulls away from Castiel’s kiss to roll his forehead on the counter. “I’m—I’m so c-close,” he stutters, and Castiel reaches up with the hand that was in Dean’s hair and twines their fingers together. It’s insanely intimate but, somehow, Castiel isn’t scared by it—he relishes the closeness and, ultimately, it’s his undoing.

He shouts as he comes harder than he ever has in his life, his rhythm faltering as Dean cries out beneath him, trembling uncontrollably as he’s rocked by his own orgasm. Castiel grips Dean’s hand tighter, steps in closer, and presses his lips to the shell of his ear as he comes down from the high, panting and sweating—splayed over Dean’s back.

Eventually, once Castiel catches his breath and doesn’t worry so much about his knees buckling under him, he straightens and pulls out to an almost inaudible whimper from Dean.

Dean doesn’t move.

“Did I kill you?” Castiel asks, tying the end of the condom and smirking in triumph. 

Dean groans as he pushes himself up, getting his feet back under him and stepping away from the islands before immediately crumpling. Castiel lunges forward, catching him before he hits the ground, as Dean rolls his eyes.

“Oh, please—you’re not _ that _good.”

Castiel grins as he helps Dean settle on one of the stools. “Liar.”

Dean throws his head back on a laugh and it fills Castiel’s ears like sweet music—he smiles fondly at Dean. “Yeah…” is all Dean says, sounding far more dreamy than he probably means to. 

“Come on, let’s get somewhere more comfortable.” Castiel helps Dean stand and leads him to his room in favor of his soft bed, ignoring the condom Dean tears off and tosses to the floor—he'll deal with it later.

They practically fall into bed—Dean wincing only a little—and settle under the covers. It’s long since gone dark outside, the purple sky bleeding black as the stars blink on and the moon comes out. Castiel lays his head on his pillow as he faces Dean in the dark, who’s in the same position, facing him.

They watch each other for the longest time, their legs tangling beneath the sheets and small, secret grins on both their faces. Castiel’s chest swells with something he doesn’t quite recognize—something he doesn’t quite want to name—but he doesn’t let it scare him off.

He reaches forward with one hand, brushing away a strand of hair that hangs in Dean’s eyes, and asks him, “Why did you come here?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in the pale moonlight. “Like, to your house?”

He rolls his eyes and nudges Dean’s foot with his own. “To the island.”

Dean grins, but it’s tinged with sadness. He doesn’t hesitate in answering though. “Well, before catching a gig as the world’s best waiter-slash-busboy-slash-barista—” Castiel nudges him again. “I was a piano player.”

“A _ what_?” Castiel’s face pinches as he leans away a little to see if Dean's fucking with him.

“Seriously, I was a professional pianist. Not that I’m surprised you’ve never heard of me—you can’t even get cell service out here.”

Castiel scoffs. “You can so!” He fidgets. “It’s the internet that’s crap.” 

A burst of laughter fills the room as Dean moves closer—so close that their noses brush and they breathe each other’s air. “Beside the point,” he says, waving his hand and moving on. “I was a professional pianist for—”

“Wait, professional like _ rock band _ or professional like _ Mozart_?” Castiel interrupts, curiosity getting the better of him as Dean huffs.

“I’m getting to that if you’ll just—”

“Yeah, yeah; I’ll shut up.” He grins when he sees the scowl, knowing he’s being a little shit but not really caring.

“_Anyway_, I was a pianist for a band called Wayward Sons.” Castiel’s eyes widen when he recognizes the name. Though he hasn’t ever heard their music, it’s nearly impossible to have never heard of them.

“You—”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’ve been _ missing _for four months.” He shrugs half-heartedly and doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. 

“What happened?”

Dean doesn’t answer, uncovering one of his hands from under the blanket and bringing it up for Castiel to see. There’s the tiniest tremor in his fingers—barely perceptible, but there, all the same.

“Started about half a year ago.” He shrugs again and says no more. He doesn’t really need to—Castiel gets it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know—docs couldn’t find anything.” Dean doesn’t look him in the eyes as he says it, and Castiel gets the feeling there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t push.

“Can you still play?” Castiel takes Dean’s hand in his, toying with his fingers before massaging them lightly.

“You wouldn’t even notice a difference from before, honestly.” He smirks, nudging Castiel’s nose with his own. “But I notice—slower on the keys, not as much energy, sloppy progression…” He trails off, curling his fingers around Castiel’s and pulling both their hands to his lips to kiss Castiel’s knuckles. 

Dean tries not to let it show, but Castiel can see that he misses it—that a part of him was lost. “You’ll have to play for me sometime,” he whispers, and Dean’s eyes light up in an entirely new way.

“Yeah,” he smiles, looking into the middle ground—not exactly at Castiel, but into a far-off memory. “Yeah, I’ll play for you.”


	8. Hey, Brother

**Time After: 1 month, 2 weeks, 5 days**

“Castiel? Castiel, guess what?” 

He jerks to attention when the lady in blue says his name. She’s too close—her blonde curls bouncing in his face—and Castiel leans away.

“Someone is coming for a visit this afternoon,” she whispers and something inside Castiel leaps. Something soft and fragile—it almost feels like hope, but he can’t be sure. It must be that man… that man…

The man with the green eyes and freckles is coming to visit him.

A smile lights up his face for the first time since it all happened. It almost hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt—the kind that doesn’t really hurt at all.

He sits at a table in a room full of tables. He waits and he smiles—only softly now, but it hasn’t left his face since the morning. People bustle around him, talking and laughing and, for the first time since he can remember, he notices. It’s almost… nice. Normal, even.

With his hands folded on the smooth surface in front of him, he waits. He hasn’t seen the man in a long time. That’s how it seems, anyway—time tends to get away from him, either going too fast or too slow—but now, as excitement builds inside his chest, the dragging of the minutes seems like it used to. 

A door opens across the room and a man walks through, but it isn’t _ the _man so Castiel doesn’t know why he’s looking at him… still looking at him… walking over to him… sitting down.

“Hey, Cassie. How’s it going?” 

The smile drops from Castiel’s face and he scowls. _ This _ is his visitor? He doesn’t _ know _him.

“It’s Gabe, remember? Your favorite big brother?” The man holds his hands out from his sides and grins, but this isn’t right. 

_ It’s not right. _

Castiel lashes out and hands grab at him, shouting and shoving as he shoots out of his chair, tears streaking down his face. He _ knows _ this is wrong. Where’s the green-eyed man? Where is _ he_? 

“Castiel, you need to _calm_ _down_!”

But he can’t. He _ can’t_.

A pinch in his arm and everything goes fuzzy.

He wakes up in his bed and he’s just _ so tired_. He wants to sleep forever. He wants to disappear.

**Time Left: 4 months, 6 days**

It’s been weeks since their second date and Castiel is still flying high.

They’ve gone out for dinner more often than they probably should—stopping in at the tiny, rundown movie theater afterward and eating popcorn until their stomachs ache—and Castiel has finally taken Dean on a tour of the island, showing him all his old stomping grounds—the tiny park usually frequented by tourists, with its shiny slides and silent swing sets; the string of tiny souvenir shops where he and Gabriel would press their noses to the glass; the candy shop where they’d spend all their hard-earned money on five-cent candies and chocolate bars. Dean laughed like a kid at all Castiel’s stories.

It’s been kind of perfect and Castiel is absolutely terrified.

He thinks he might be falling in love with Dean.

No, scratch that—he _is _in love with Dean and nothing this good has ever lasted in Castiel’s life—not _ever_. He’s like a beacon for bad luck and only being _with _Dean quells the storm of doubt inside him.

Dean is easy—he’s sweet and kind and so goddamn important to him that he soaks in every second of their time together. 

And Castiel loves him.

He loves him in the morning when they wake in Castiel’s bed—the languid smiles and soft, lazy kisses. He loves him in the middle of a shift when Castiel is a little frazzled and a lot stressed, and Dean brushes by him, a hand trailing over his hip with a reassuring smile. He loves him in the middle of the night when he’s kept awake by insomnia—the worries of the world too much to handle—but Dean is fast asleep, dreaming and smiling and whispering ‘_ Cas_.’ 

He loves him _ now_, as Castiel moves through the kitchen of his café, seeing all the neatly organized shelves, arranged by none other than Dean. Even with it being Dean’s day off, Castiel still feels him here—he doesn’t think there’ll ever come a time when he _ doesn’t _feel him here.

It’s after lunch-rush and they’re just starting their fill-ups—restocking the muffins, filling the sandwich table, and individually boxing the leftover slices of pie—when a tall, shaggy-haired man Castiel’s never seen before walks through the door, looking nervous and out of place in his three-piece, tailored suit.

“Can I help you?” Castiel asks, wiping his hands off on a dishcloth as he stares up at the tall, tall man—he’s gotta be at least six foot four, and Castiel will admit, he’s _handsome_. He’s no Dean Winchester, but good-looking all the same.

“Uh, yeah. Maybe…” The man clears his throat, his eyes creasing in the corners in a way that’s so very familiar to Castiel, but he can’t place it. “I’m looking for Dean Winchester? I think he works here.”

Castiel is on guard immediately, schooling his features into cool impassivity. Dean had warned him about the possibility of reporters and paparazzi, telling him to get their names and call him immediately if someone were to ever show up looking for him. 

“Mind if I get your name?” he asks, tilting his head to the side in a show of helpfulness.

“Uh, yeah, it’s Sam.”

“Sure, let me just give him a call—he might have left already.” 

Sam’s face drops but he gives Castiel a small nod and a half-smile, not bothering to take a seat as he fidgets.

Castiel hurries back to his office, already dialing Dean’s number.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” Dean answers on the second ring.

“Dean—”

“Oh, come on! I thought that one was pretty good! You know I love bacon—”

“_ Dean_,” Castiel snaps, his tone harsher than he means for it to be. He rubs one hand over his forehead and paces his office from one wall to the other. “There’s a man here asking for you.”

“Shit,” is all Dean says for a moment. There’s a clatter in the background, then Dean speaks again. “His name?”

“Sam,” Castiel answers and there’s a very deliberate pause on the other end.

“Did you say ‘_ Sam _’?” 

Castiel huffs, rolling his eyes as he paces faster. “_Yes_, Dean. Keep up.”

“What does he look like?” Dean’s voice is almost frantic now, and Castiel’s panic ratchets higher.

“Tall—really tall. He’s got long, shaggy brown hair. Hazel eyes, I think? Good-looking guy, actually—”

“Fucking, _ fuck_!” Dean shouts and there’s movement on the other end of the line again.

“Look, I can just get him to leave—have Bobby escort him off the island—”

“No! God, no—don’t do that. Cas, I need you to keep him there. Do _ not _let him leave, whatever you do.” Castiel’s confusion mounts as he pauses in his pacing. Dean must sense his confusion. “I’ll be there soon, angel. No need to worry—promise.” 

Then the line is dead and Castiel still can’t move. He tries to think where he’s heard the name _ Sam _before in relation to Dean, but the answer evades him, so he hurries back to the front of the café where Sam waits, still standing where he left him.

Castiel wants nothing more than to tell him to go. For some reason, he thinks Sam will change everything for him and Dean, and not in a good way. But this is important to Dean, so Castiel leads Sam to a table in the back. “Don’t go anywhere. Dean will be here soon.” 

He spins on his heel and practically runs for the kitchen as his stomach rolls and pitches dangerously—he thinks he might be sick. He peeks through the kitchen doors every few minutes to make sure Sam is still there before resuming his pacing as he waits for Dean. 

Dean bursts through the back door about ten minutes later, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed as he glances around the room as if Sam might be in here. 

“Where is he?” Dean asks, taking long strides to stand in front of Castiel, his hands automatically drifting to Castiel’s hips, but they don’t touch him, hovering instead as Castiel’s heart clenches. _ I’m going to lose him. _

“In the back corner by the window.”

Dean nods and moves to step around Castiel.

“But, Dean? Who is—” Dean’s gone—out of the kitchen with the doors swinging shut behind him. “—he?” He feels the burn of acid in his throat.

Castiel follows him, pushing through the swinging double doors just as his boyfriend pulls the other man into a long, tight hug. Castiel has to swallow a few times as his heart clenches—he’s going to lose him.

Dean steps away first and turns to Castiel, his eyes shining with happiness and love for Sam, and as he opens his mouth to speak, the words, “Cas, this is my—” barely making it out of his mouth, Castiel’s stomach gives a violent heave and he flees the room, slamming through the kitchen doors and shoving past Charlie on his way to the bathroom.

He just makes it over the toilet before his lunch comes back up.

Pain radiates through him, stemming from his heart and pushing outward to flood his whole body. His stomach heaves and heaves until nothing comes out and tears pour down his cheeks as he thinks, _ I’m going to lose him, I’m going to lose him, I’m going to lose him_.

But there’s a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles and whispering sweet words in his ear as he sweats and shakes, his hands gripping the toilet bowl for dear life.

“Hey… hey, baby, what’s wrong?” Dean’s voice whispers in his ear, his breath brushing over Castiel’s skin and calming him in a way he never thought anyone could. “Cas, it’s okay… it’s okay, shh…”

It’s then that Castiel realizes he’s apologizing. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” Over and over and over again as he wipes his cheeks and sips the water Dean hands him, his eyes so tenderly worried that Castiel can’t stand to look at him because he’s going to _ lose _him.

The way Dean hugged Sam… God, it’s burned into his mind forever. Sam has to be Dean’s long-lost love or something, and Castiel is going to lose him. His stomach flips again, and he gags.

“Did you eat something? Cas, are you… are you sick?” Dean’s hand moves up into his hair, running his fingers through the tousled strands as Castiel shakes his head before changing his mind and nodding. “Yes or no, which is it?”

“Bad food,” Castiel chokes out, not wanting to tell Dean the truth—that he’s so terrified of losing him that it made him physically ill.

“I guess I'll introduce you to my brother another time, then,” Dean says in a soft voice, but it catches Castiel’s attention. Brother? 

“No, no. Just give me a minute.” Castiel sits back on his ass, leaning against the wall as Dean watches him from where he’s crouched by the door.

“Take your time,” he whispers, his hand dropping from Castiel’s hair, down to his shoulder, before falling away. Castiel catches it with his own before Dean can pull back, lacing their fingers together in a desperate attempt to keep him close. Dean lets him, giving his fingers a squeeze as Castiel takes deep, calming breaths—pushing away the panic because Sam is Dean’s _ brother _ and he’s not going to lose him. He has to keep telling himself, _ I’m not going to lose him, I’m not going to lose him, I’m not going to lose him_.

Eventually, his stomach settles and the shaking stops. He opens his eyes and Dean’s there—he’s _ still _ there—holding his hand. Dean’s isn’t leaving him—he’s _ not_.

Swallowing thickly, Castiel meets Dean’s eyes and nods. “Okay… I’m okay.” He squeezes Dean’s fingers and forces a shaky smile, but Dean’s eyes still shine with worry even as he helps Castiel back to his feet, waiting patiently for him to wash his hands and rinse his mouth before leading him to the front of the café. 

Castiel takes a deep, steadying breath as they push through the doors and he follows behind Dean as he leads him around the counter and back to the table where Castiel left Sam.

Sam stands when he sees them, a small, nervous smile turning up his lips when he meets Castiel’s eyes. Castiel tries to return it but knows he fails miserably.

“Uh, Sammy, this is Cas, my… man-friend,” Dean says and Castiel’s head shoots back on his neck at the words _man-friend_. What the fuck?

“Did you just call me your _ man-friend_?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Dean who throws his hands up, waving them around his head.

“C’mon, _ boyfriend _ sounds too… _high school_,” Dean says and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well _ man-friend _ sounds too… _gay_,” Castiel tosses back, tilting his head as his eyes narrow further.

Then Dean gets that damned smirk on his face as Castiel realizes what he just said. “Well, if the shoe fits…” Dean shrugs innocently, his green eyes sparkling as Castiel fights back a grin, his cheeks flushing.

“Fuck you, Winchester,” Castiel mutters before turning back to Sam and extending his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” Sam takes his hand with an awkward smile. “And, sorry,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “You know, about _ him_.” He nods in Dean’s direction as Sam chuckles, the awkwardness bleeding from him almost visibly as he looks at his brother.

“Nah, it’s all good. I’m kind of used to him—I really doubt he’s changed that much.” He shrugs, shooting Dean a wide—and slightly nervous—grin. 

“Oh, would you two piss off? Never should’ve introduced you,” Dean grumbles under his breath, but there’s a small smile turning up his lips. 

Sam laughs as he moves back to his seat, removing his jacket and throwing it over the back of his chair as Castiel rolls his eyes. 

Dean nudges Castiel’s side to get his attention. “You know you love me,” he whispers. 

Castiel glances over at him, feeling his words like a truth he has yet to admit, and he thinks, _ I do_. _ God_… _I fucking _do.

Dean and Sam talk for hours as Castiel smiles at them from behind the counter. He brings them drinks and snacks, grinning all the while because Dean is so _happy_, and now that he knows Sam’s his _brother_, he can finally feel the giddy excitement for Dean that he should have felt all along.

The café has been closed for twenty minutes when Dean calls Castiel over. He’s just finished his nightly duties, so he joins them, taking the seat beside Dean as he smiles up at Castiel. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dean this happy.

“Hey, Cas—Sammy here is a hotshot lawyer on the west coast! My baby brother went to _ Stanford_.” Dean’s grin is infectious and Castiel looks back at him with all the love he has in his heart. “I always knew he was a genius—didn’t I, Sammy?”

Sam nods, love for his brother shining in his eyes as he sips the last of the raspberry lemonade Castiel had brought them. “And my brother’s a rock star. Never thought I’d be able to say _ that_.”

“Yeah, ’cause the last time I saw you it was more likely I’d end up in prison than on the stage at Madison Square Garden.” Castiel knows Dean meant it as a joke, but it falls flat as pain fills his once-happy eyes.

There’s a long, long pause as Castiel watches Sam watching Dean, and Dean avoiding eye-contact with Sam.

Eventually, though, Sam speaks, and when he does, it’s almost too quiet to hear. “Why didn’t you come find me? After you turned eighteen?”

Dean’s eyes search the room as if looking for the answer, his mouth wide, at a loss for words, as he throws his hands out to his sides and lets them drop. “I tried—God, did I fucking _ try_—but I had a record, Sammy, and CPS is locked pretty tight when it comes to keeping people like me away from good kids like you.”

Sam only nods, scratching at the chipped paint on the table’s surface. Castiel wants to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t, the words sticking in his throat as pain radiates from Dean. He takes Dean’s hand under the table instead, and Dean lets him, squeezing his fingers too tight.

“I tried, Sammy,” Dean whispers, his voice earnest as he leans forward. “I got clean—cleared my record and got on the straight and narrow—but they wouldn’t let me contact you. They fucking wouldn’t—” His voice pinches as he shakes his head. Castiel’s bones grind together as Dean squeezes tighter. “I tried _ so hard _to find you.”

“Okay,” Sam says, nodding. “Okay, I get it. I believe you.” 

Dean’s shoulders sag and he eases his vice grip. He rubs soothing circles over Castiel’s knuckles.

Sam’s phone chimes and he glances down at it. “Damn, it’s getting late. My fiancée is waiting for me at Talbot’s.” Sam glances at the two of them. “Did you want to join us? I’d love it if you met her, and I’m sure Jess would love to meet you, too.”

When Castiel looks over at Dean, his eyes are wide and excited and Castiel smiles. “Definitely!” Dean answers. “We’d better get going now, anyway, before the owner kicks us out; I hear he’s kind of an asshole,” Dean says, whispering the last part with a smirk turning up his lips. 

“Watch your mouth,” Castiel growls, pushing back from the table and swatting the side of Dean’s head with the back of his hand. “You two go ahead without me; I have lots to do here, yet.”

Dean pouts as his hand finds the back of Castiel’s thigh when he stands. It’s only a light touch, but the look that accompanies it is full of something Castiel’s too damn terrified to name—terrified because of the hope that swells in his heart.

He shows Sam and Dean out the door, shaking Sam’s hand and giving Dean a soft kiss before locking up behind them and watching through the windows as they drive away. 

His stomach turns all the while as he tells himself, “_ You’re not going to lose him, you’re not going to lose him, you’re not going to lose him. _”

When the Impala’s taillights fade and he’s left alone in his deserted kitchen with nothing to occupy his spinning mind, he finally hears the tiny, whispering voice in the back of his mind, “_ But what if you do? _”

He shakes the thoughts away and pulls out a mixing bowl. There aren’t very many things Castiel can do well—his failed relationships and broken family can attest to that—but baking is his specialty. He knows what he’s doing and has complete control over every aspect of his creation. It calms him in a way that almost nothing in the world can.

Hours later, he finds himself standing in a sea of baked goods, but he feels a little bit better. He wonders about Dean—about where he is, what he’s doing, why he hasn’t called—but it’s not so pressing now, as he carries the pies, cookies, loaves, and pastries over to the fridges and racks, storing them inside for the next morning. He rearranges the desserts for a moment, trying to pack them all in, before coming to the conclusion that it won’t all fit. 

With a heavy sigh, he decides there’s only one thing to do as he drags a stool through the swinging doors to his worktop. With a fork in one hand, he pulls the dark chocolate, cherry truffle cake in front of him and starts to eat.

Dean isn’t there when Castiel gets home. The house is dark, the silence, broken only by the creaking floorboards under Castiel’s feet as he navigates the kitchen, not bothering with the lights as he stores the leftover desserts in the bottom of his fridge, unable to even look at them right now.

He has a stomach ache. He knew he would, but it doesn’t make him feel any better to be right. He just wants to go to sleep, so he stumbles his way through his bedroom doors and falls, face first, onto his bed. He already knows he won’t be getting any sleep tonight—he misses Dean already—but he tries anyway, closing his eyes to the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains. 

Dean never said whether he would be coming back or not, but he does. Late into the night—or early in the morning, Castiel doesn’t know which—a warm body crawls into bed beside him, and when a kiss is pressed to his temple, Castiel can feel the giddy, excited smile against his skin. He’s happy for Dean—he really is—but still, it feels like everything is about to change.

**Time Left: 4 months, 2 days**

It’s been four days since Sam showed up and Castiel has barely seen Dean outside of work. Castiel misses him, but he doesn’t want to be the one to pop Dean’s happy little bubble now that he finally has his brother back, but Castiel wants his _ boyfriend _back.

It’s almost closing time and there isn’t much to do besides the nightly cleaning, so he’s behind the counter, pretending to sweep while watching Dean and Sam laugh with each other through the display case.

He focuses on Dean—on his wide smile and bright eyes—and can’t help but feel bad for wishing it were _ him _ Dean is smiling at. Castiel knows he’s sulking, and he knows it’s childish, but he can’t help it.

He jumps when a hand smacks down on his shoulder and Charlie’s voice whispers in his ear. “Stop being such a baby and go sit with them.”

Castiel huffs, “I can’t interrupt.”

“Of course you can! Give me that.” She snatches the broom from his hands and shoves him out from behind the counter. “Go talk to your boyfriend and his brother.” Castiel looks back at her for a moment, but she just glares at him. “Go!”

With a soft sigh, he wanders over to their table, feeling awkward and uncomfortable—like he’s intruding on some private meeting.

He’s about to turn away—to act like he’s only out here to clean a table, before escaping back to the relative safety of his kitchen—but Dean glances up and catches his eye. 

Dean grins, his eyes sparkling in just the way Castiel had hoped they would. “Cas! Baby, come sit!” So he does, trying to force away the blush at being caught hovering, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” he whispers in Castiel’s ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Just like that, every worry Castiel has felt over the last few days just melts away. He grins at Dean, taking his hand beneath the table and giving it a squeeze. “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably, before he turns to Sam. “Are you tired of him yet?” Castiel asks by way of a greeting.

Sam sips at his coffee and grins as he sets it down on the table before glancing up at Castiel. He quirks an eyebrow, “Are you?”

“Getting there,” Castiel answers with a cheeky grin, knocking Dean’s knee under the table as he rolls his eyes, trying his best to ignore them. 

“You’re so full of shit, Novak,” Dean says as he packs up his garbage. “Come on, we’re going out for dinner.” He pulls Castiel up by the hand when he stands, tugging him along on his way out as Sam follows behind. “Do you want to stop at your house to change before we go?” 

Castiel’s eyes widen when he realizes Dean’s talking to him. “What? No, I can’t, Dean. I need to close—”

“Charlie has a key,” he says, glancing over at Charlie, who nods. “See? Let’s go.”

“But, Dean—”

Dean huffs, rolling his eyes as he stops in the middle of the café. “I already asked Charlie if she’d be fine to close, okay? It’s all good, Cas! Please?”

Castiel looks at Charlie, who nods, before he turns back to Dean and acquiesces. “Okay, just let me grab my things.”

“Great!” Dean beams, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he spins around and lets Castiel lead them through the kitchen.

Sam chuckles as he follows, waiting by the back door while Castiel grabs his wallet and keys from the office. They agree to take the Impala and leave Sam’s car behind for the night since Dean refuses to get into what he calls a _ piece of shit hippy-dippy car_.

“We can’t stay out too late, though; Dean has to open the café in the morning,” Castiel says to Sam, before shifting his gaze over to Dean, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t forget your key.” Castiel has been woken up by that phone call far too many times, and he plans on sleeping in.

“Aw, but I thought you loved my midnight calls?” Dean says, his voice high and whiny as he unlocks the doors of the Impala.

“Sure, but they’re not _ midnight _calls; they’re seven-in-the-morning calls and I have to get out of bed for them,” Castiel snarks back, opening the back door and promptly being nudged to the front seat by Sam, who climbs into the back instead, smiling politely and shrugging at Castiel’s started face.

“Then don’t open the café so fucking early. God knows I’m not going to remember all my shit at ass-o’clock.” Dean glares at Castiel as he starts the car and backs out of the parking lot.

“Put in a formal complaint to Gabriel, then stop your bitching,” Castiel says, but he’s holding back a grin as Dean tears down the road toward the downtown strip, passing the run-down clapboard houses of the locals, before the buildings outside his window morph into cute little tourist shops and tiny, ethnically diverse restaurants.

Dean doesn’t respond, taking Castiel’s hand instead as a grin pulls up the corners of his mouth. Castiel’s grin grows, too.

“You two sound like an old married couple,” Sam grumbles under his breath, and Castiel’s eyebrow arches as he and Dean give each other sidelong looks. 

“First of all, I am _not _old,” Dean says, holding up one finger as he drives. “And _second_, fuck off,” he adds, swapping fingers to flip his brother the bird.

Castiel chuckles as Sam grumbles some more. It seems to Castiel like no time has passed at all—their brotherly banter is much the same as his and Gabriel’s—throwing insults back and forth with no real sting. It brings a smile to Castiel’s face.

“How long have y’all been together, anyway?” Sam asks after a beat of silence.

Castiel thinks hard, but it’s kind of difficult to pinpoint it exactly. Was it the first time they slept together? Or their first date? He glances over at Dean and sees the same deliberation on his face. He glances at Castiel and mouths, _ the first time we fucked? _and Castiel loses it, throwing his head back on a laugh as he closes his eyes. 

“_ No_!” He laughs, hitting Dean’s arm with the back of his hand. “Um… a month? Six weeks?” He glances at Dean who gives a half-nod, half-shrug that Castiel takes as agreement.

They pull up outside Talbot’s and Dean’s distracted by threatening the poor valet boy with castration if he so much as spins the tires on his Baby.

Jessica is already seated, waiting patiently at a table for four in the back, wearing a lovely floral sundress. She’s quite beautiful with curly blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. There’s a brightness to her—a lightness—that reminds Castiel of Dean. Castiel thinks he’ll like her a lot.

They sit, and they smile, and they laugh. Castiel watches Dean watch Sam, smiling softly at the rapt attention he gives his little brother after missing so many years with him. He likes Sam; they have a lot in common, and Jess is bubbly and friendly, just like he thought she’d be.

“We met at Stanford, actually,” Sam answers when Castiel asks. “She was in nursing school at the time and we had a class together.” Sam smiles at Jess, his eyes shining with happiness. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day for the first… month? Two?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jess laughs, smacking Sam’s shoulder with the back of her hand as she rolls her eyes. Castiel smiles at them while readjusting the napkin on his lap.

“We’re house hunting in LA right now, actually. Trying to get settled in before the wedding.” Sam says, and Jess takes a bite of her ravioli as she nods, wiping her mouth delicately afterwards—bright red sauce stains the pristine napkin. Castiel tries to ignore it. 

“This place is so lovely, though! It must be wonderful living here full time.” Jess smiles at Castiel, her eyes shining as she speaks, but it doesn’t feel right. Castiel fidgets, feeling the weight of her words like an insult—like living in Sandover can’t possibly be as hard as living anywhere else.

“You should move out there with us, Dean,” Sam says, his eyes lighting up as he looks at his older brother, and Castiel’s heart falls to the floor, his stomach dropping in tandem, as Dean’s eyes match his brother’s. “We could get to know each other, and you could meet Mrs. Tran and Kevin—Mrs. Tran is my foster mom and Kevin’s not so bad when you get to know him—it’d be so great!”

Castiel pushes his plate away and turns his eyes to Dean, but Dean’s not paying attention to him—he doesn’t notice the way Castiel’s whole plan for the future falls to pieces, or how his hands start to shake under the table.

He crumples the napkin in his fists and swallows hard. Once. Twice.

“Sounds awesome,” Dean exclaims and Castiel’s stomach rolls as dread floods. He’s going to lose Dean—for real this time.

Castiel doesn’t speak for the rest of dinner, and he doesn’t touch his food, too upset to do either as Sam and Dean and Jess plan their future—one without Castiel in it—completely disregarding the fact that Castiel has his _ own _ plans. Plans that include Dean _ here_—on this island where they’re safe and happy and _ together_.

Castiel doesn’t make a sound as they say goodbye to Sam and Jess—who will be driving back to the café to pick up Sam’s car—while waiting for their cars to be pulled around, and he doesn’t speak as Dean drives him home. Dean glances at him the whole way, a frown marring his features as worry curls his lips into a frown. Castiel stares out his window at the passing houses.

When Dean pulls into his driveway, Castiel jumps out with little more than a muttered _ thank you_. He knows he’s acting petulant, and that Dean deserves this chance—he should be _ happy _ for him, for Christ’s sake—but he can’t shake the feeling that yet _ another _ person is leaving him. _ Another person _has decided he’s not worth staying for.

He doesn’t notice Dean following him until a hand catches his arm and spins him around. Dean’s soft concern has morphed into bitter frustration and he backs Castiel up against the screen door, caging him in as he leans in close.

“Cas, what’s _ wrong_?” His eyes are pleading, and Castiel gets the feeling this isn’t the first time Dean’s asked this question in the last few minutes.

“Nothing,” he whispers, looking down at Dean’s chin—he doesn’t want to burst Dean’s happy bubble, even if he knows that bubble was popped the moment they got into the car together. “Nothing—just tired.”

He tries to turn—to leave before he’s left behind—but Dean doesn’t let him, pulling him back around and blocking him in on all sides. “I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Dean says, and his tone isn’t nearly as harsh as Castiel’s sure he meant it to be—he’s pleading with him and Castiel’s shoulders sag in defeat.

“I don’t want you to leave.” It comes out as little more than a whisper, but Dean hears and his shoulders drop to match Castiel’s.

“Come with me,” he says instead, and Castiel shakes his head wildly. He can’t—this island is home. It’s familiar and _ safe_—he can’t leave.

“I can’t. Dean, I—no, I can’t leave. I can’t.” Everything he knows is here—he _ knows _ everything here. If he leaves, he’ll be lost and in danger of never finding his way back home. No, he can’t leave. He _ can’t_.

Panic, first, then determination set into Dean’s features as he leans into Castiel, kissing him softly on the cheek. “Okay… okay, I’ll figure it out. I will, Cas.” He searches Castiel’s eyes, looking for something before he moves away. “I promise—I’ll figure it out, okay? Don’t worry.” 

Then he’s gone, and Castiel is left standing on his porch in the dark—alone and terrified of losing everything.


	9. Take Me To Church

**Time After: 2 months, 1 week**

The time passes without him really noticing. The ladies and gentlemen in blue come more often now, give him more little cups filled with colorful pills and tiny glasses of water. 

He doesn’t like them, but they keep the nightmares away for the most part. They keep everything away, actually.

His head is filled with cotton balls most of the time, and usually, they’re pretty quiet. Usually. Until he sleeps, anyway—then they start screaming.

He sits on his bed and waits for them to come get him. They tell him this morning that he can leave his room for a few hours and that sounds better than this, so he waits.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the door opens and he’s led out, but it’s enough time for him to need to pee. He holds it.

They walk for a while and Castiel doesn’t think he can hold it much longer, but he does. He sits where he’s told on the couch in the office and watches the lady in blue leave, her sad blue eyes glancing at him over her shoulder as her blonde ponytail sways. He looks around. He doesn’t like it.

The man they call The Doctor sits behind a desk, fiddling with papers. He looks up at Castiel but Castiel is looking at his hands. He doesn’t like it here. This place feels like the furthest from home he could ever get, and he’s so goddamn homesick he can feel it in his _bones_.

The doctor starts speaking but Castiel doesn’t hear him, and he knows he’s supposed to answer, but he can’t focus. He has to pee, and he _ really _doesn’t like it here.

Castiel jumps when the doctor touches his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Novak. Follow me.” _ Mr. Novak… that’s not right. _

He follows, glad to be out of the office, but he still needs to pee. 

The doctor doesn’t lead him anywhere, letting them wander, instead, so Castiel does just that. He wanders them right out into the garden, under a tree, where he pulls down his pants and pees. 

When he’s finished, he pulls them back up and finds a bench to sit on, not noticing the shocked expression on the doctor’s face.

The cotton balls aren’t so thick out here and he breathes in the fresh air, watching the bumblebees bounce from flower to flower as the doctor talks. Still, he doesn’t hear him, too busy soaking in the calm.

A word—a _ name_—floats into his mind as the sunshine warms his face, and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s the name of the green-eyed man.

_ Dean. _

**Time Left: 4 months, 1 day**

After Dean leaves, Castiel sits by his phone, keeping it plugged in and the ringer turned up so he won’t miss Dean’s call. He waits, and he waits, feeling nausea inside him, ebbing and swelling like the tide, with every passing moment.

_ This is why I don’t get close, _ he thinks to himself. This _ is why I don’t let people in. _

Because they leave. They _ always _leave, and he’s left with nothing but a broken heart and a hole in his chest—one that never heals quite right, no matter how much time passes—and it’s not fair.

_ Life’s not fair, baby. _ His mother’s voice rings in his ears as he sits on the couch, trying not to count the minutes. _ Life’s not fair, and no one ever said it should be. _

He didn’t understand it then, and he doesn’t really now—he just knows he still hates it and he hates that he knows what’s coming. He knows Dean’s leaving him to be with his brother—he just hasn’t figured out how to tell Castiel yet. That’s why it’s three in the morning and he hasn’t called.

He’s already gone. He’s not going to call.

Castiel is going to wait for _ days _ and _ no one _will call.

He’s going to wonder for the rest of his life.

Because Dean’s not calling.

But maybe... maybe he’s not calling because he’s coming over?

Castiel’s head snaps up as the screen door squeaks and Dean’s head peeks in—his tired eyes shine with happiness as a tentative smile lights his face. He steps inside and Castiel’s heart does a flip—a tumble and a leap—but he doesn’t move. He can’t—not until he hears the words.

Dean takes another step inside; his eyes lock on Castiel’s as he breathes deep, and speaks. “He’s staying, Cas. I’m staying—” Castiel is across the room in an instant, his heart going a mile a minute as his lips crash into Dean’s.

Overwhelmed with emotion, he doesn’t know what to do, so he holds on tight to Dean—holds on to him so he can’t change his mind—and he lets himself hope.

**Time Left: 3 months, 3 weeks, 4 days**

Castiel tilts his face to the sky, soaking in the heat of the day and enjoying himself in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

Dean is _ staying_.

He has to keep reminding himself of that every time he thinks about anything. 

_ Dean is staying, Dean is staying, Dean is _ choosing _ to stay. _

He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t really care, but Sam agreed to rent a house on the mainland and move down here. Jess had apparently been all for it, jumping at the opportunity to live by the ocean, even if she and Sam would have to fly back to California every other week until they could both find new jobs in the area.

Castiel had felt guilty at first for being the reason they had to uproot their lives, but Jess had set him straight real quick, telling him they needed a change anyway; that the big city life in California just isn’t for them.

Castiel closes his eyes and lies back in the sand, tracing his fingers through the soft graininess of it as Dean sits a few feet away, making sandcastles like a fucking five-year-old, but he looks so happy doing it that Castiel decides not to tease him… much.

He dozes in and out of sleep as every muscle in his body relaxes into the earth. They took the day off, leaving the café in Hannah and Charlie’s capable hands—though, Dean _did _have to drag him out this morning as he yelled instructions and, “_I’ll have my phone on all day_,” before Dean called out after, “_No he won’t._”

And that was the end of it as he was shoved into the Impala, Sam and Jess giggling from the backseat, and carted off to the beach on the far side of the island—one that few others know about and is, therefore, pretty empty. A few locals smile and wave as they pass—some stop and chat for a bit—but they’re mostly left alone.

Sam and Jess disappeared down the beach not too long ago, looking for seashells to take back to California with them to give to Mrs. Tran. Castiel has decided that he does, in fact, like Sam. He wasn’t sure at first, but the younger Winchester is so much like his brother, in so many ways, that it’s impossible not to like him. Besides, he makes Dean happy and there’s nothing Castiel wants more than that.

The sunlight shines red through his eyelids and he knows he needs to put on some more sunscreen, but he’s too lazy. Maybe he’ll ask Dean.

Before he can work up the energy to open his eyes and search Dean out, a shadow falls over him and the red of his eyelids turns dark as Dean lowers himself on top of Castiel, straddling his waist before lowering his chest to press tight to Castiel’s own. Dean’s breathing is shallow and sharp as he tucks his face into Castiel’s neck.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dean. It’s _ hot _out,” Castiel whines, but he wraps both arms around Dean’s back, stroking his heated and sweating skin as he buries his nose in the space behind Dean’s ear, breathing him in.

“You’re so comfy, though,” Dean mumbles into his neck, pressing little wet kisses all over his skin, nipping every now and then before eventually rolling away to lie, sprawled out on his back, beside Castiel. 

Castiel watches him for a moment, his eyes scanning over the smattering of freckles on Dean’s nose and across both cheeks, before moving down over his stubble to his perfect lips, jaw, chin… lower and lower—everything his eyes find is perfect and Castiel _ loves _him.

Dean’s arms start to move in and out—his legs follow suit—and Castiel can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell he’s doing.

“_ What _are you doing?” Castiel asks, sitting up and turning to face Dean as he continues his limb-waving.

He doesn’t stop as he answers, giving Castiel a weird look. “Snow angels?” He rolls his eyes, “Okay, well, _ sand _angels.”

“What is a—”

“Right, right—we’re in the deep south where cold doesn’t exist, and no one has any kind of imagination.” Castiel shoves at his ribs and Dean grunts, flinching away as Castiel lies back down beside him, ignoring Dean’s grumbling as he rubs at his side.

“That’s dumb.” He folds his hands over his stomach and stares at the sky as he fights back a smile.

“Oh, come on! Make one with me, angel.” Dean nudges Castiel’s arm and he looks over at him, finding himself too entrapped by the lopsided grin he’s greeted by to refuse.

Spreading both his arms and legs wide, he starts to move them, pushing away the sand to make clear sweeps. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips, loving the feeling of the soft sand sliding under him.

Dean stands, but Castiel doesn’t move, not wanting to dig up the effort to get up just yet. “Come on, lazybones.” Dean reaches out a hand and Castiel sighs dramatically as he takes it, letting himself be pulled up and out of the “angel.” 

To his surprise and delight, it does sort of look like an angel, and he bumps his hip into Dean’s as a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “Mine’s better,” Castiel says, and Dean scoffs.

“Bullshit—look at how sloppy yours looks; mine’s all clean lines and smooth edges.” He points out the supposed _ smooth lines _and Castiel rolls his eyes, but his heart melts and lifts all in the same moment when Dean looks at him.

“Whatever you say, hotshot,” Castiel says, grinning wickedly as Dean returns the eye roll at the nickname. It’s only gotten hotter out since they set up their chairs in the sand, not bothering with umbrellas—which Castiel now regrets with the sun beating down on them—but Dean looks content, if a little sweaty.

“Come on,” Dean says, nodding his head toward the water. “Come sit in the shallows with me.” He reaches out his hand but Castiel hesitates, his decades-old fear of the water coming back for only a moment before he takes a deep, steadying breath and grabs Dean’s hand, letting him lead the way to the cool water.

The waves lap over his toes as Dean pulls him in farther. He’s careful as he wades in, trying not to step on anything sharp, before lowering himself beside Dean, who has his legs stretched out in front of him while resting back on his hands. Castiel mirrors him, sighing as the cool water soothes his sunburn.

“I could lie here forever,” Dean murmurs absently after a moment, his eyes closed as he tips his head to the cloudless sky. “Just like this. Forever with you.” Castiel watches the small smile that just barely turns up his lips. 

He thinks maybe Dean’s a little sad, too—sad that they can’t, but excited for all that they can do instead.

“Hmm, is that so? I think you’d shrivel up a little too much for my liking.” He grins as Dean flicks water at him.

“Oh, fuck off, would you? I’m trying to be romantic and you’re ruining it,” Dean grumbles, but he leans in closer to Castiel, their shoulders brushing as birds caw overhead.

Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, heaving a heavy sigh as he closes his eyes. “You’re the sweetest and you know it. A giant pain in my ass, but the sweetest, too.” He turns his head and presses a soft kiss to Dean’s shoulder.

“I think I might be in love with you, you know?” Dean whispers and it’s the most wonderful thing. The absolute _ best _thing.

“You think so?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and nuzzles his nose in his hair.

“Good,” Castiel breathes as all the tension melts from his body—his heart lightening as happiness floods in. He smiles—wide and bright and _ giddy_. “That’s good.”

He can hear Sam and Jess calling to each other down the beach, but he pays them no mind. He and Dean are in their own little world, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Time Left: 3 months, 3 weeks, 3 days**

“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” Dean asks, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist as the early morning light shines through his kitchen windows. A pan of bacon sizzles in front of him as Dean presses kiss after kiss to the slope of his neck.

“This isn’t for you.”

That gets him a scoff as Dean’s head shoots back. “The hell do you mean?” 

Castiel smirks as he points to a plate of food sitting on the island behind them. “_ That _is for you.”

He feels Dean turn to look before wrapping his waist in a tight hug and smacking his ass when he pulls away. “God, I love you,” he says as he rounds the island and slides onto the stool—almost tipping it sideways in his haste to get at the bacon and eggs in front of him.

“I love you, too,” Castiel whispers—not quite loud enough for Dean to hear.

When breakfast is over and the dishes are cleaned, they fall onto the couch—Castiel seated in the corner of the large beige sectional with Dean’s head in his lap. He buries his fingers in Dean’s hair, massaging his scalp as Dean groans obscenely.

“God, your hands are _ magic_.” Castiel just smirks, resting his head back on the cushion as he massages Dean’s temples. “What’re we doin’ today?” Dean murmurs, half asleep as he drops a hand on one of Castiel’s wrists, his fingers just barely grazing the skin as he closes his eyes. “We should go somewhere.”

“Can’t—gotta bake a thousand pies.” He lifts his head to look down at Dean when he feels him jerk. “And _none _of them are for you.” He emphasizes his words with a finger poking into Dean’s softening tummy. Neither of them can deny the fact that Dean has eaten _a lot _of baked goods since he moved here just over three months ago.

_ Three months? Four? _ Castiel has no idea. The time just seems to fly by these days—they’re well into the hot season at the end of June and it’s only going to get hotter, but for once, he’s looking forward to the days ahead.

“Ugh, you bastard,” Dean grumbles, rolling his head to look up at Castiel with a half-hearted scowl. Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s hair at the same time that he bends forward, pressing a smacking kiss to his lips before pulling away and patting Dean’s bare stomach.

“Up you get,” he says as he shoves at him, ignoring the grumbling he hears as he stands. “This year’s high school graduates need a head start on their freshman fifteen.” He wanders into his bedroom and grabs an old shirt and his keys as Dean’s voice carries through the house.

“Fine, but I’m coming with you!” 

“Put on some clothes first!” Castiel shouts back as a grin tugs at his lips. Dean isn’t used to the heat and, therefore, likes to wear as little as possible to keep cool—not that Castiel is complaining because he absolutely _isn’t_. Dean’s hot and they both know it.

“Never thought I’d hear those words from your mouth,” Dean murmurs as he passes Castiel on his way to the closet on the other side of the room, rummaging through Castiel’s clothes for something to wear.

Castiel doesn’t bother responding, rolling his eyes instead as he does up the laces on his sneakers and stuffs his wallet in his back pocket.

“Alright, boss-man, let’s get goin’!” Dean rubs his hands together in front of his face where a huge grin is plastered. Castiel rolls his eyes again and smacks Dean’s ass as he passes, grinning the entire way to the Impala.

“You know, I really don’t need you to help—you’re kind of a shit baker,” Castiel says on the drive over and Dean just shrugs.

“Yeah, but I’ve got a nice ass and you _ love _that,” he winks at Castiel before taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Meh,” Castiel shrugs, tilting his head from side to side in a _ take it or leave it _kind of gesture.

“Fuck off,” Dean grumbles, but he’s smiling as they pull into the empty parking lot. He can hear chatter from the patio, so they must have a few townies in for a morning coffee—it’s too early yet for the tourists to be out and about.

Dean takes Castiel’s hand as they walk through the back door, whistling as they go. He doesn’t notice Castiel smiling fondly at him, or the way love shines brightly in his eyes. Castiel can feel it, though—he knows he’s gone on Dean and there’s nothing he can do about it.

It only takes a moment for him to decide to close the café early. He wants a day alone with just Dean and his kitchen—a day where he doesn’t need to worry about the concerns of others or their satisfaction with the service. He leaves Dean in the kitchen to go let his staff know they'll be closing at noon, giving only a partly true reason for it: that the order for the graduation ceremony needs to be completed and he doesn't want a full kitchen while doing it. They don’t ask too many questions, though, glad to be let off early on such a beautiful day.

He heads off to the kitchen to get baking, setting Dean up to make cookies while he preps the pastry for pies. It really isn’t _ too _big of an order—the graduating class is only about sixty-five or so students—but they’re making a lot of different desserts, so it’s time-consuming and, to be frank, rather tedious if you don’t like to bake.

Dean doesn’t like to bake.

Castiel is only six pie fillings in when arms wrap around his waist and lips trail up and down his neck. He smiles as he tilts his head to the side and continues stirring the cherry pie filling. 

“You’d better not burn those cookies,” Castiel warns, but there’s warmth in his voice and Dean nuzzles his nose into Castiel’s neck. “I mean it, Dean.”

“Can’t burn if they’re not in the oven,” he mumbles, the words muffled against Castiel’s skin. 

Castiel puts down his spoon and turns around, glaring at Dean for real now. “You haven’t put the cookies in yet?” His eyes snap over to where the full trays sit, waiting to be loaded into the ovens.

“I don’t know what temperature,” Dean pouts, his bottom lip sticking out as he bats his eyelashes.

“Bullshit,” Castiel grumbles, but takes over, setting the ovens to the correct temperature and letting them preheat. “You’re a pain in my ass, Winchester,” he huffs before heading back to his pies. There are nine kinds in total—blueberry, cherry, peach, pecan, apple, strawberry-rhubarb, bumbleberry, banana cream, and pumpkin—and all their fillings need to be made perfectly, so he can’t be stopping every five minutes to help Dean out.

“But you love it,” Dean sulks, stepping into Castiel’s space and caging him in against the worktop. “You know you love it,” he says, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble as he moves in closer, his eyes falling to Castiel’s lips as he leans in. “Don’t you?”

Castiel is helpless, unable to resist him even if he wanted to. His breath catches as he leans in closer, his heart pounding and his skin tingling in anticipation. Dean’s lips are just a breath away and he can almost… almost…

The oven beeps and he jumps before pulling away, shaking himself out of his trance to put the cookies in the oven. Dean just stands there, dumbstruck and panting, as Castiel moves around him, laying out the pastry in their tins before setting them aside to be filled.

By all outward appearances, Castiel is unruffled, but inside, his blood sings and his heart pounds, wanting to be near Dean again—to touch him and taste him for hours and hours—but they have an order to fill and there just isn’t time.

Castiel points Dean to a huge bowl of batter that Hannah made earlier. He doesn't have to give any verbal instructions—he's been silently bossing Dean around for long enough that he just gets it. Dean huffs under his breath as he moves away from Castiel's workstation and starts portioning out the batter.

“You’re no fun to bake with, you know,” Dean grumbles as he spoons batter into a cupcake paper before setting it in the tin—he spills some on the side and Castiel has to fight back the urge to tell him to clean it so it won’t burn.

Castiel scoffs as he wanders over to Dean’s side, taking the paper towel from his outstretched hand to wipe up the mess, before heading back over to his workstation, ignoring the eye roll Dean fails to hide. “I’m the _ most _fun to bake with.”

“Really? ’Cause I’m bored out of my skull right now.” He doesn’t look at Castiel as he says it, but Castiel knows he’s being an ass on purpose. He shouldn’t take the bait—he should let it go—but he doesn’t.

“Well, what the fuck do you think will make this more exciting?” Castiel snaps and he can just barely see the corner of Dean’s smirk as it tilts his lips.

Dean sets down the spoon he’s been gripping tight in one hand, not bothering to wipe off the batter that smears his fingers as he steps closer to Castiel, a lascivious grin turning up his lips. 

Castiel raises a challenging eyebrow—he knows what’s coming—and Dean doesn’t disappoint as he tries to surreptitiously dip his hand in the small bowl of flour Castiel has for rolling pastry.

“Don’t you dare fuck up my fillings,” Castiel growls as his eyes stay locked on Dean’s. One eyebrow lifts innocently but Castiel isn’t buying it. “I mean it, Dean.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean says, but he fucking does, and Castiel sidesteps to keep the pie filling out of range.

Every muscle in Castiel’s body tenses as he waits for the attack, knowing it’s coming but not when, and he holds back a little smirk as he waits. He loved flour fights as a kid, even if he and Gabriel always got their asses kicked by their parents—covered head to toe in flour. Some of his best memories involve the stuff.

Dean moves fast.

Castiel is faster.

Before Dean knows what’s happened, he’s sputtering, his eyes squeezed tight as he scrubs at his face and hair, looking like a ghost under the fluorescent lights. Castiel throws his head back on a laugh as Dean’s dumbfounded expression turns sour and his bottom lip pushes out.

“No fair! You threw the whole bowl!” He scrambles for any leftover flour on the counters to throw at Castiel but his attempts are meager at best and all he ends up doing is scattering it in the air.

Castiel isn’t paying attention—too sure in his victory to do anything but laugh and laugh—when Dean tackles him, taking him to the floor to roll in the mess of flour.

Castiel lets out an indignant shout as he shoves at Dean, rolling him onto his back and pinning his arms above his head as he straddles his waist to stop him from rolling them again. 

“You fucking bastard,” Castiel says, but he’s grinning as he leans forward, pressing his smile against Dean’s in a heated kiss. They’re alone now, so he doesn’t have to worry about anyone else walking in on them. 

He kisses Dean breathless, then he kisses him some more, keeping his arms pinned above his head for the moment. With his lips trailing away from Dean’s and up to his ear, he whispers, “You’d better get those cookies out before they burn.”

Then he’s pushing himself up and off, leaving Dean startled and annoyed where he lies on the floor. “Tease,” he snaps before picking himself up and marching over to the ovens. He pulls out the trays and practically tosses them aside like a petulant child, much to Castiel’s amusement. “There—” 

The word is barely out of Dean’s mouth before Castiel is shoving him back into his office and bending him over the desk, his lips scorching Dean’s as his hands paw at whatever skin they can reach.

Dean doesn’t react for a moment, startled into stillness as he stumbles along, but he quickly gets with it, his hands coming up to clutch at Castiel’s shirt and drag him closer as he deepens the kiss, plunging his tongue into Castiel’s mouth.

“What was that about being no fun?” Castiel pants, tugging Dean’s flour-dusted shirt over his head before tossing it into the corner. He digs his nails into Dean’s sides as he arches into him, moaning deep in his throat as his breaths come in harsh pants.

“I take it back; you’re the most fun.” Dean closes his eyes and scoots back on the desk a little, messing up the paperwork as he wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist and drags him in so he can grind against him.

Tingles race up Castiel’s spine as he leans into Dean, grinding harder as he undoes his shorts, jerking them past his hips before stepping away to pull them the rest of the way off, along with his shoes, leaving him in nothing but a pair of Castiel’s boxers.

Dean’s cock strains against the thin material, leaving a spot of wetness where pre-come leaks from the top. Castiel’s mouth waters and he wastes no time in freeing it from its confines and swallowing it down as Dean shouts, throwing his head back and jerking his hips.

Castiel gags when Dean hits the back of his throat, and his eyes water as he pulls back, breathing hard. Dean apologizes, stroking the hair at Castiel’s temples as he tries again, sucking softly as his head bobs in rhythm with his pumping fist.

“Fuck, Cas…” Dean moans, rolling his hips with his legs wrapped around Castiel’s head. God, he loves that—the tight clench of Dean’s thigh muscles holding him in—and pleasure arcs through him when Dean’s fingers clench in his hair as he moans around his dick.

He pulls off with a pop and stands, leaving Dean panting and sweating on his desk as he strips, tossing his clothes aside before wrestling Dean onto the desk chair. 

“You’re gonna fuck me like this, got it?” Castiel says, spreading Dean’s legs wide before bending over his desk to present his ass to Dean as he rummages through one of the drawers for lube. 

“Yessir.” Dean moves quickly, slicking up his fingers before pressing roughly inside. It stings but Castiel quickly adjusts as Dean makes fast work of opening him up, scissoring his fingers and pressing down hard on the sensitive bud of nerves inside him.

He’s trembling within minutes, sweating and panting as his knees dip and his eyes close. He needs Dean inside him _ now_.

Without warning or preamble, Castiel sits down, pressing hard against the resistance of Dean’s cock and ignoring the pain as he’s split open, and it feels like heaven and hell all at once—the burn so achingly good, setting off a fire in his gut that spreads through every part of his body as Dean shouts, gripping Castiel’s hips with bruising strength.

“Fuck, Cas—don’t hurt yourself,” Dean pants, his voice tinged with worry even as he rocks his hips up into him. 

Slowly—so slowly—Dean sinks into him until he’s balls deep with Castiel in his lap, sweating and shaking as wave after wave of pleasurable pain washes through him. He closes his eyes and drops his head back against Dean’s shoulder, his head rolling to the side to kiss Dean’s neck.

“You’d better start moving before I come,” Castiel warns, and Dean’s hips are rolling almost immediately, his hands holding Castiel still by his waist as the chair squeaks its protests beneath them. Their breaths don’t quite manage to block out the sounds as Dean moves faster, the pleasure building to a fevered pitch as every shift of Dean’s hips nudges his prostate.

Moan after moan falls from their lips until they bleed together—the sounds indistinguishable as fingers thread through hair and dig into skin, pulling and grabbing and holding as they move faster and faster.

Dean comes first, shouting, exploding inside Castiel with such intensity that it sends Castiel tumbling over the edge right after, his every nerve lighting up like a Christmas tree. 

They tremble against each other as they climax, holding each other tight, their breaths coming in labored, shuddering pants as Dean softens inside Castiel.

“The most fun _ ever_,” Dean wheezes, his face tucked into Castiel’s shoulder. “God, I fucking love you,” he whispers and Castiel’s heart clenches—he aches to speak the words, too, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

So, instead, he pushes himself up on shaky legs and turns around, sinking to his knees as he wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. He lays his head in Dean’s lap and hopes he understands the words he’s not saying—the words he can’t say.

**Time Left: 3 months, 3 weeks, 2 days**

The sun has barely risen when Castiel’s eyes blink open, and he’s greeted by the sleeping face of his naked lover. Dean’s beautiful all the time, but especially when he sleeps. He’s so peaceful—the worries of the world gone from his face as his eyelashes cast shadows against his cheekbones and his lips part carelessly. 

It’s in this tiny moment that Castiel fears losing him the most. He’s almost fragile in the pale light of dawn—almost translucent in his existence—and Castiel is terrified that it’s all just a dream. That he’ll wake up and find himself alone again.

After hours of baking the day before, Castiel and Dean made their way back to Castiel’s house, falling into bed after barely more than a rinse in the shower to wash away the flour, sweat, and come that covered their aching bodies. He knows there’s still hours until he needs to be up to deliver the order, but he’s not the least bit tired, despite the early hour. 

So, he traces the curves and lines of Dean’s face with his eyes, mapping the ridges and valleys and committing it all to memory before doing the same with his fingertips, feeling the soft skin of Dean’s cheeks beneath the pads of his fingers.

Dean’s nose scrunches and he twitches away from the touch before his eyes flutter open to reveal that beautiful green. “What time is it?” he murmurs, his voice sleep-roughened and sexy as hell.

“Don’t know,” Castiel says with a shrug, shimmying in closer so he can press his lips to Dean’s, whose head shoots back immediately.

“Dude, morning breath, holy fuck.”

Castiel just rolls his eyes and reaches a hand around, winding his fingers through Dean’s hair to pull him in, planting a sloppy, smacking kiss on his lips before rolling out of bed to the sound of Dean’s complaints.

“Ah, fuck! At least eat a fucking breath mint, you nasty shit.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and smirks over his bare shoulder as he steps into his black and yellow striped bee slippers, knowing the floors will be cold this early in the morning. “Oh, shut up, you big baby.”

“You’re an asshole, you know?” Dean throws a pillow at his head and Castiel ducks, but it still clips his ear, and he flings it back, catching Dean square in the face as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“I know,” Castiel says as he pushes himself up and reaches for the blankets, pulling them off of Dean and around his shoulders as he shivers softly, and, as he expects, Dean bitches.

“What the fuck, Cas? It’s fucking freezing!” He snatches one corner of the blanket and tries to pull it back with little success.

“Yeah, I know—that’s why I’m taking it.” He tugs the corner out of Dean’s hands and steps out of his reach, but Dean just pushes himself out of bed and curls into the blanket with Castiel.

“Come on, then.” He nods towards the living room. “Only one of us has ridiculous slippers to keep their feet warm and it ain’t me.”

“They’re not ridiculous,” is all Castiel says as they shuffle through the house in the early morning light. They drop onto the sofa, tucking their feet under the blanket to keep them warm as they snuggle into each other.

“What time are we delivering all that shit?” Dean asks as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s thigh and lays his head on his shoulder.

“Two-ish,” Castiel answers, already feeling his eyes drooping again. The clock on the wall cuckoos five times and Castiel takes that as permission to lay his head on top of Dean’s, letting his muscles relax as they lean back into the sofa.

The sun continues to rise as they sleep, only waking when the heat has their skin sticking to the blankets and sweat dripping down their bodies. Castiel kicks off his slippers and throws the blanket aside as he stands, stretching his arms high over his head with a satisfied groan.

“I’m going for a shower. Join me?” He raises a playful eyebrow as he starts to move away, his bare ass swaying as he goes, just for Dean’s benefit. It does the job as Dean scrambles to his feet and follows close behind.

After a not-so-quick shower, they dress and start the short walk to the café, the gentle incline enough to have them panting and sweating in the balmy, end-of-June heat. 

Having already decided to make leftover muffins and croissants their breakfast, the first thing he and Dean do when they arrive at the café, is raid the fridges and flip on the coffee machine. Castiel decided last night that the café wouldn’t be open today, either. His staff needs a break to enjoy the summer—_he _needs a break, period. He’s glad he did it, too—it’s nice having a quiet morning alone with Dean.

After they’ve drained the coffee pot and devoured the tray of leftovers, Dean helps Castiel load all the treats into the backseat and trunk of the Impala—Dean complains about the possibility of something spilling and Castiel tells him to piss off—then they’re off, pointing the car in the direction of Castiel’s old high school.

As they pull up outside the building, Castiel is suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong that it stops him in his tracks.

The bustle of excited students and stressed teaching staff is so familiar—it feels like his graduation was just yesterday, and yet, so long ago it feels like another life. He remembers Gabriel shoving his way into the front row, yelling and whooping as Castiel made his way, red-faced, across the stage to accept his diploma. He remembers the townies—the people who raised him—cheering him on, too.

“Cas? Cas, where are we taking this shit?” Castiel jerks out of his reverie as Dean’s face appears in front of him.

“What? Oh, this way.” He leads Dean inside, snagging the rolling cart that waits for them in the lobby, complete with a hand-written sign reading High Tide Café. He and Dean load it up before Castiel takes them through the winding halls to the gymnasium.

It’s louder here—just how Castiel remembers it—and he tries to ignore the proud parents gushing over their children, tries to push down his anger as the children brush their parents off. He would have given anything to have his parents with him that day.

He leaves Dean to set up the pies and heads back to the car for the rest of the cookies and cupcakes, taking a moment to calm himself before going back in. Things like this always get to him—things he missed out on because no one was there to give it to him.

_ The quicker we get this done, the better, _he thinks as he pushes the final tray through the gymnasium doors.

The tension must show on his face because suddenly Dean is in front of him, his hands resting lightly on Castiel’s biceps as he searches Castiel’s eyes. 

“What’s wrong? What is it?” His face is so filled with concern that it makes Castiel’s heart clench and his stomach flip. 

He shakes his head and pushes past Dean, unloading the tray one last time as Dean watches him closely. He doesn’t say anything—this isn’t the time for it—and instead goes to find the principal for his check.

When all that is done, he’s practically running for the door, weaving through the students and ignoring the smiling parents. He knows a lot of them, and some try to stop him to talk, but he just smiles half-heartedly and hurries on.

With a gasping breath, he pushes through the doors with Dean on his tail. They walk in silence to the Impala and he slides into the front seat, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he tries to shove down the twisting in his stomach.

“What happened?” Dean almost whispers, taking Castiel’s hand in his and interlocking their fingers.

“Just…” Castiel waves his free hand around by his head. “I just—this whole thing… it reminds me of my own graduation.” Castiel looks up at Dean with all the pain he feels shining in his eyes. Dean doesn’t say anything more—he gets it.

He smiles softly, squeezes Castiel’s hand, and pulls away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” Castiel asks, glancing around their surroundings when he realizes Dean’s not taking them back to the café.

“I found this place my second or third day on the island—I want to show it to you.” Dean smiles over at him, his eyes bright and a little excited. 

“You know I grew up here, right?” Castiel raises an eyebrow but Dean just ignores him, focusing on the different street names instead of listening to Castiel. Dean shoots a withering look in his direction and Castiel fights to hold back a laugh. 

“Piss off, asshat,” Dean murmurs as he turns around in someone’s driveway before going back the way they came. 

“If you’d tell me where we’re going, I could tell you how to get there.” Castiel sits back in his seat, a small smile on his face, and lets Dean get them lost. It’s not like Castiel doesn’t know exactly where they are, anyway.

After a few more turnarounds and one almost-cliff-jump, Dean pulls into the parking lot of Castiel’s old church. The stonework and wall of stained-glass windows are so achingly familiar to him, and his breath catches as he looks up at the simple wooden crucifix in the middle of the windows.

He hasn’t been here since… since his mom…

He doesn’t even realize he’s getting out of the car until he hears Dean’s door close behind him. “Do you like it?” Dean asks, and Castiel can practically hear his grin.

“My church…” Castiel whispers, his eyes locked on the tall spires and sprawling gardens. The heavy, wooden double doors loom at the top of the steps, large and intimidating—daring him to enter once again.

“You’re religious?” Dean asks, the shock clear in his voice.

“No,” Castiel says as he starts toward the building. He knows they’re not supposed to go in, and he hesitates for a moment, turning to look at Dean. “We uh... we’re not allowed in there, Dean.”

“Why not?” Dean asks, a grin splitting his face as he hops up the first few steps before spinning to look back at Castiel.

“The church isn’t open. They close it during the week since lots of people think they have a right to it, and cause trouble,” Castiel says, but Dean doesn’t seem to care as he shrugs and waves Castiel along. He knows they shouldn’t—they could get in a lot of trouble—but he can’t bring himself to care as the memory of the rows of pews—unseen by his adult eyes—seems to call him in.

The doors are unlocked, and he slips inside, Dean following close behind, his head tipped back as he takes in the old-world beauty of it.

It hasn’t changed a bit—even the dust is the same—and he wanders through the pews, his fingers grazing the tops of the polished wood. Their steps echo as he makes his way up to the front, ignoring the way the stained-glass windows let in the sun—the colorful light-show covering every inch of the inner structure. 

Ascending the three small steps, he approaches the cross on the wall of glass that mirrors the one outside, his head tipping back to look at the top. God, it’s been too long, and coming back here… it feels like visiting an old friend—one he hasn’t seen in a while… one he fought with the last time they spoke… one he missed dearly.

He reaches out a hand to just barely graze the tips of his fingers over the solid wood, feeling the smooth grain beneath them. The only thing in the room the light of the sun never touches. He remembers his mother saying that one Sunday morning when he was young—four, maybe—and he noticed it every time after that.

Soft music floats into his consciousness, drifting through the space in a way that’s almost too perfect to be real, and Castiel turns around to see Dean sitting at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys like they were made for just that. With Dean’s clumsy baking and pushy attitude, Castiel tends to forget that this is what Dean did before he came to him. It feels like far too delicate a thing for Dean’s brash, and occasionally overbearing nature—so much so that Castiel forgets how delicate he can be.

But Dean makes the most beautiful music.

Castiel is drawn to the sound—like coming home after a long day—and it’s soothing. He’s beside Dean before he even knows he’s moved.

Dean’s fingers dance over the keys, splashed in vibrant red. Purple creeps up his arms and green melts over his shoulders. His face is painted yellow as he smiles over his shoulder at Castiel.

He changes songs almost imperceptibly, and the new one tugs at something in Castiel’s heart, setting off an ache that’s oh so familiar to him now, and he takes a seat on the bench beside Dean, soaking in the haunting tune of Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing”. He closes his eyes and sways to the music.

Then Dean starts to sing.

And, God, can he _ sing_.

“_I could stay awake, just to hear you breathing. Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you’re far away and dreaming._” Castiel stares, his eyes wide and heart pounding with something dangerously close to wonderment. Dean grins.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Castiel whispers.

Dean just nods as he continues, “_I could spend my life in this sweet surrender. I could stay lost in this moment forever. Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure._” The music builds and builds until it hits its peak and Castiel is struck by the lyrics—by the way they touch his heart and bring tears, unbidden, to his eyes.

He watches the colors shift over Dean as he moves with the music—as it moves through him like he was made to bring it to life_—_and Castiel can’t help but think this is how the light of the stained-glass windows is meant to be appreciated.

“_I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to fall asleep, ’cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thing. ’Cause even when I dream of you, the sweetest dream would never do, I’d still miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thing._” He brings intricacy to the song, adding something that wasn’t there before, but making it better, somehow—bigger and brighter and more _alive_. His fingers move faster over the keys than Castiel has ever seen anyone do, and he can’t believe that Dean thinks _this _isn’t good enough anymore. _This _is jaw-dropping, life-changing talent, and Dean’s the most beautiful person he’s ever known in every sense of the meaning.

He lights Castiel up from the inside out—Dean _ is _ light—and he loves every part of him. He knows everything he’s feeling shines on his face in that moment, but he doesn’t care—he wants Dean to see it all—to _ know _it all.

When Dean catches sight of how Castiel is looking at him, he gives him a weird look. “What?” Dean asks over the music, and Castiel can feel the words on the tip of his tongue. “What is it, Cas?” He tilts his head to the side, his fingers freezing where they rest on the ivory keys, and Castiel knows he knows—his eyes are patient and loving—he’s just waiting for Castiel to be ready.

“I—” The words cut off in his throat and he clears it before taking a deep breath. “I just—”

“Hey! What the hell are you two doing in here?” Their heads snap around as a burly man Castiel knows as Bobby Singer rounds the corner from the basement stairwell.

“Fuck,” he hisses as he shoots to his feet, grabbing Dean’s arm and pulling him along as he runs. 

“Cas, what—” 

“Groundskeeper,” he shouts as they push through the door, laughing as they take the steps three at a time. “He’ll toss us in a cell just for fun,” Castiel says as Bobby glares at them from the top step.

They practically leap into the car—though he knows they don’t actually need to run anymore—and peel out of the parking lot. Dean glances over at Castiel as he drives, his nerves showing on his face. “Will he really have us arrested?” His voice is soft and worried, and Castiel lets out a huff of laughter.

“If we hadn’t left, yeah.”

Castiel feels lighter as the adrenaline fades from his bloodstream. He takes Dean’s hand, holding it loosely in his as they drive through the streets.

Dean pulls up to his apartment—a ten-story building with fancy brickwork and underground parking for those, like Dean, who care more about their cars than their bank accounts—and looks over at Cas. “I thought we could walk to your place,” he says, smiling over at him as he squeezes his hand.

“Good, you could do with some exercise,” Castiel chirps before diving from the car when Dean’s pinching fingers go for his ribs.

“Come on, asshole.” Dean takes Castiel’s hand after he locks up his Baby, leading them through the underground parking garage and back up to the road where they wander through the streets. 

Sandover Island really is beautiful, and Castiel almost feels bad about not appreciating his home more—for thinking more often than not that it’s a prison rather than a paradise—but here with Dean, it feels like heaven.

“Hey, Dean?” Castiel says after a few minutes of silence, an errant thought popping into his head as they turn onto the street where Castiel’s old public school is.

“Hm?” Dean looks over, contentment written all over his face as he swings their hands back and forth between them.

“Do you remember when I asked how you know my brother, and you said you’d tell me another time?” 

Dean looks a little startled by the question, but then he throws his head back, laughter spilling from his lips. “You really want to know?”

Castiel shrugs—he doesn’t see why not.

“Okay, well,” Dean says, clearing his throat as a faint blush colors his cheeks. “It was, uh... it was not too long before I left the band. I knew I was doing it, but I needed some help and, well,” he pauses, shrugging a little as he glances over at Castiel. “You know what your brother’s job is, right?”

Castiel smirks. “Of course, I do.” Gabriel isn’t exactly _discreet _about the fact that he’s the CEO of the porn franchise, _Casa Erotica_. It used to embarrass Castiel to no end, but he’s made his peace with it.

Dean chuckles, though it’s a little strained. “Okay, well, he... uh—he approached me at a party and we got to talking and drinking and all that.” Dean laughs and waves a dismissive hand before continuing. “He uh... he brought up his _ profession_, and asked me if I was interested in... in doing a _ film_.”

Castiel’s eyebrows hit his hairline and he stares at Dean in disbelief.

Dean’s eyes widen when he sees Castiel’s reaction. “No! No, I didn’t _ do it_! He was _ joking_!” Dean laughs, shaking his head as Castiel relaxes. “Anyway, I told him I wasn’t into that and I guess he found it funny that I thought he was serious.” Dean shrugs. “It was whatever. We kept talking, got to be pretty friendly, and I mentioned that I wanted to leave the band.” He grins over at Castiel and squeezes his hand. “He mentioned the café—that you needed another employee—and said if I was willing, the job was mine.” He holds his free hand out to his side and shrugs. “Here I am.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a moment, taking in his hesitant expression as he waits for Castiel’s reaction. Castiel laughs, remembering how adamant Gabriel had been about Castiel not being _ allowed _ to fire Dean. It all makes so much sense! He can’t even be mad at Gabriel anymore because he got _ Dean _out of it. 

“That’s…” Castiel shakes his head, smiling at nothing in particular as they continue walking, taking shortcuts Castiel has been using all his life to get back to his house just that little bit faster. “That’s really great.” When he finally looks back at Dean, he finds him grinning, all the love he feels for Castiel shining in his eyes.

They walk in silence for a while and the sky grows steadily darker as storm clouds roll in. They’re not even halfway to Castiel’s house when the first drops start to fall, and the rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance. A shiver runs through Castiel as the air electrifies and he looks at Dean, who has his face turned to the sky, his eyes flicking back and forth like he’s searching for something.

“Thunderstorm,” Castiel whispers, as if speaking too loudly will rumble the clouds and release the downpour.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers back, nodding as they quicken their pace a little. They’re just reaching the old hardware store on Main Street—about three-quarters of the way between Dean’s apartment and Castiel’s house—when a flash of lightning illuminates the sky, followed by rumbling thunder—the sky opens up.

They start to run.

Hand in hand, they tear through the streets, Castiel pulling Dean along as he starts to pant. It doesn’t much matter, though, since, by the time they crash through Castiel’s squeaky screen door, they’re both soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably.

“Go grab some dry clothes,” Castiel says to Dean, shoving him lightly in the direction of his bedroom. “I’m going to make us some soup.”

Dean doesn’t argue as he disappears, shedding his wet clothes as he goes while Castiel grabs a couple cans of Campbell’s tomato soup and a can opener, finds a pot and the milk, and gets their dinner started.

Dean’s not gone for long, bringing back a change of clothes for Castiel and taking over while he changes. Castiel leaves Dean to cook for a moment when he sees that he’s still shivering, wandering into the living room in search of a throw blanket.

When he finds one, he wraps it around his own shoulders before moving to stand behind Dean, wrapping him up in a warm hug while watching him cook over his shoulder.

“Feel better?” Castiel asks, kissing Dean’s neck and smiling as goosebumps rise in his wake. 

“Hmm…” He tips his head to the side to give Castiel better access, and he takes full advantage, kissing his way up to his ear and around to the front of his neck. Dean hums softly as he leans into Castiel’s chest, and Castiel’s heart sings.

They stay like that until the soup is hot, then Castiel lets him go, rather reluctantly, so they can move somewhere a little more comfortable.

“You got any crackers?” Dean asks as he searches through Castiel’s cupboards, frowning.

“Shelf on your right,” Castiel murmurs as he watches Dean’s frown turn to a grin when he finds them. Castiel doesn’t say anything as Dean turns his perfectly good soup into tomato mush—he just smiles fondly and walks with him to the bedroom, their shoulders brushing as they move through the doors.

Castiel sets his soup down on the floor at the foot of the bed, deciding he doesn’t want to risk ruining his perfectly clean, white sheets, and opens the french doors that face the ocean. He’s always had a love-hate relationship with storms—loves the beauty and life in them. Hates the beauty and life they can take away so easily. 

He latches the doors open before sitting on the floor, back to the footboard of the bed, with his shoulder pressed up tight against Dean’s as they eat. The sun should technically still be up right now, or setting, at least, but the sky is dark with storm clouds and his room is cast in shadows.

He leans into Dean, soaking in his warmth as the storm rages on only feet away. Occasionally, a spray of rain will touch their toes, but it’s not enough to get them to close the doors, and Dean looks so happy—so content—to just sit there like that. 

They set aside their empty bowls but don’t bother moving as Dean wraps his arms around Castiel, holding him close. Castiel’s heart beats calmly in his chest for the first time in what feels like forever during a storm, and he can’t help but attribute that to Dean. To the man he loves more than life itself.

He closes his eyes as warmth floods him. Dean kisses the top of his head, whispering words Castiel can’t hear over the thunder and the fog of sleepy contentment. It doesn’t matter, though—none of it matters—because this man—this perfect, beautiful man—is his, and he can’t help but want to freeze this moment in time and live in it forever.

The haunting notes of a piano echo in his ears.

He starts to hum.


	10. Answer Me This

**Time After: 2 months, 2 weeks, 4 days**

The green-eyed man plays board games.

_ Dean_, Castiel reminds himself. _ Dean _plays board games with him. Twister, too. Castiel unfolds the mat, laying it flat on the floor in the middle of the common room—making sure there are no wrinkles—while Dean sits on the floor with one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent, where he rests his arm, holding the spinner in his hand. 

When Castiel is all set up, he looks to Dean, giving him a short nod and watching as he flicks the pointer, sending it spinning around the board.

“Left foot, green,” Dean says and watches as Castiel does as he’s told before spinning again. 

“You could play too, you know.” Castiel glances up from where he’s contorted on the mat, barely able to catch a glimpse of Dean before he puts his head down and concentrates on not falling.

A chuckle falls from Dean’s lips and Castiel thinks he might be shaking his head but he can’t be sure. “Hell no; I’ll pull something. Right hand, yellow.” 

Castiel stretches back to reach the yellow circle, almost falling in the process but managing to catch himself before tumbling into a pile of limbs. He ignores the stares from the other people milling about, focusing on Dean’s shaggy, overgrown hair and smattering of freckles that he can now see with the change of position.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You always say that, but you’ve never actually tested the theory.” 

With a lopsided shrug and a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, Dean says, “And that ain’t gonna change today, either. Right hand, green.”

With a huff and the beginnings of a smile, Castiel moves his right hand back to green. They play Twister for hours, Castiel beating his record for the longest game he’s played to date, but now the _ others _are creeping into the room. The ones with the red eyes, or the razor teeth. The dangerous ones that no one else seems to see.

They only come out when the sun goes down, sneaking into the corners of the room—stumbling through the edges of his vision—and they’re worse in the dark of his empty room. The horrible sounds they make chill him to the bone and he screams and screams and screams himself hoarse, but no one comes. _ No one comes. _

When Dean leaves, they come.

The doctors say he’s getting better. They smile when they see him, and they ask how he is: _ How have you been doing? What did you get up to today? Have you gotten any sleep? Open your mouth and lift your tongue, please? _These are the things they ask. They don’t mention the dangerous ones.

**Time Left: 3 months, 2 weeks, 1 day**

Despite all his protests, Castiel is excited for trivia night at the café, and he spends all day preparing for it. It’s gotten to the point that none of his employees—with the exception of Dean—will talk to him, and he can’t say he blames them, either. He hasn’t exactly been... easy to discuss details with. 

As of this morning, Castiel has decided that he will be running the show tonight, instead of taking the night off like he did for karaoke. He wants everything to go smoothly, and for that to happen, questions need to be asked properly, and not in Hannah’s boring monotone, or Charlie’s filterless way of communicating. Dean could probably do it since he’s stupidly charming and can get away with anything, but Castiel doesn’t want to risk it.

He sets up the scoreboard and double-checks the mic all by himself, ignoring Dean as he watches from the other side of the counter, smiling softly with his chin propped up on one hand. Dean thinks it’s all just _ so adorable_, and he’s told Castiel as much on numerous occasions. He says it’s nice to see Castiel so excited about something—that he doesn’t see it nearly as often as he’d like. Castiel rolls his eyes every time, brushing off Dean’s words without giving them much thought.

“Dean,” Castiel snaps, glaring at his boyfriend as he struggles to hook the buzzers up to the Bluetooth speakers. “Come help.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Dean quips, straightening up and giving a mock salute as he rounds the counter, fighting to hold back his grin.

Castiel glowers but refuses to dignify that with a response. “You need to press the button on the speaker at the same time I press the one on the buzzer.”

Dean nods. “You got it.” He makes his way to the speaker in the far corner of the café, over by the glass walls, and finds the correct button.

“Okay,” Castiel breathes, trying to reign in his frustration. _ Why did Gabriel have to get such complicated equipment? _ “We need to press them at the _ exact _same time.”

Dean nods, his expression, solemn and serious. 

“Okay. One… two… three.” He presses the button as he says three and watches as the light blinks blue a few times before turning red. “I said the _ exact _ same time, Dean! _ On _ three, not _ after _three.”

“Sorry, sorry—try again.”

Castiel rolls his eyes but refocuses on the button. “One… two—_Dean_!” he says, exasperation clear in his voice as the light flashes red again.

“Sorry! Jumped the gun a bit on that one.” Dean grins sheepishly and shrugs before resting his finger back on the button. “Third time’s the charm?”

“It better be,” Castiel grumbles as he rolls his shoulders and starts counting again. “One… two… _three_!” He presses the button and there are a few nerve-wracking seconds where he holds his breath as it flashes blue before turning solid green.

Dean whoops from the other side of the room and Castiel grins. He holds up his hand for a high-five as Dean passes, and Dean slaps them together with a satisfied smile. “We make a good team,” Dean says, and smacks Castiel’s ass before rounding the counter. 

Castiel fiddles with the buzzers for a few more minutes, positioning them on their respective tables, before deciding that the rest can wait until after dinner.

“So, trivia night’s a pretty big deal around here, huh?” Sam asks Dean over dinner as Castiel scribbles down trivia questions in his notebook.

Castiel sees Dean shrug from the corner of his eye. “Don’t know—this is the first one.” Dean takes a bite of his roast beef and cheddar sandwich and nudges Castiel’s foot with his own. 

He looks up from the notebook, already knowing Dean’s glaring at him, but he just smiles sweetly before looking to Jess and Sam. “Sorry, I just need to get these ideas down before I forget them, so…” He holds up the notebook. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Come on, Cas; this can wait till _ after _dinner,” Dean murmurs in his ear, and Castiel instantly feels guilty. Sam and Dean have gotten really close since they reconnected, but Dean still has this crazy notion that he doesn’t live up to Sam’s expectations. It’s insane, really, but Castiel knows how important this is to him and he should be supporting him.

He blushes, leaning into Dean’s side a little as he tucks the notebook under his chair. “Sorry,” he whispers, only loud enough for Dean to hear, and kisses his cheek, before turning back to Sam and Jess. “How is the transfer going?” 

Sam’s easy smile falls from his face, replaced by a scowl. “It’s a pain in my ass, honestly.” He pushes a hand through his hair and Castiel almost wishes he hadn’t asked. “There’s so much paperwork and legal crap involved, not to mention the actual house hunting. I just can’t wait for it to be over, you know?” Castiel nods, though he doesn’t know. The furthest he’s moved is from the run-down little shack he grew up in, to the house he lives in now.

“It’ll be worth it, though,” Jess pipes in, cheerful as ever as she beams at Castiel. “I can’t _ wait _ to step out my front door and smell the ocean! Not that I can’t do that in Cali, but this is different—It’s almost… I don’t know, more _ fresh_.” 

Castiel has no idea what that means since he’s never actually _ been _ anywhere else, but he smiles indulgently at her. “Are you planning to work at Vero Beach General?” he asks as Dean reaches for his hand beneath the table. 

Her eyes light up and she straightens in her seat. “I actually have an interview at the psychiatric hospital in Port Saint Lucie! It’s supposed to be one of the best, so I’m really excited about that.” Her blonde curls bounce around her face as she wiggles in her chair, and Castiel can’t help the fondness he feels for her. “Besides, it’s pretty close to Jensen Beach, which is where we’re hoping to find a house, so the commute is way better than it would be to Vero Beach General.”

While Jess talks, Castiel can’t help but watch the way Sam looks at her—at the way his eyes shine with love and a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth like he just can’t help it—and he wonders if this is how he looks at Dean. Castiel glances over at Dean, finding him already looking, and grins, squeezing his fingers beneath the table.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, wiping his mouth with his napkin before continuing. “Do you remember when you were, I don’t know… _eight _and you were dressed as Superman, and I was Batman, and you jumped off the shed roof because, of course, Superman can fly.”

A laugh bursts from Dean as he throws his head back and closes his eyes. “_ Yes_!” He turns to Castiel. “Then, of course, my pain-in-the-ass little brother had to do it, too, but,” he pauses, raising an eyebrow at Sam before looking back at Castiel, “Batman can’t fly.”

“Oh, God,” Castiel groans, rolling his eyes and sighing long and loud.

“So, little Sammy, here,” Dean gestures at Sam with a wave of his hand, “he jumps.” Dean shakes his head as he laughs, and Castiel can see the happiness the memory brings him. “Broke his arm.”

“Broke my arm,” Sam repeats with a nod and both Castiel and Jess laugh.

“I had to drive him to the hospital on the handlebars of my bike.” Dean sighs happily, leaning back in his chair and taking Castiel’s hand again. It’s wonderful—this kind of companionship—and Castiel can’t believe he’s never had this before; he doesn’t know what he’d ever do without it, now that he _ does _have it.

“I’ve never heard that story before,” Jess says between bouts of giggles. Her cheeks are a little pink, whether from the sun or the laughter, Castiel doesn’t know. 

Castiel picks up the panini he had been ignoring up until this point and takes a bite, moaning as the rich taste of tuna and mayo hits his taste buds. _ Damn, I’m good_, he thinks as he chews. He finds Dean smiling at him around a bite of his own food when he glances over, and Castiel raises one eyebrow, but Dean just shakes his head and gives his hand a squeeze.

Castiel’s excitement amps up with every minute that passes, bringing them closer to the moment where he’ll turn on his mic, assign teams, and open up his notebook to start the event. People filter in and out of the café—onto the patio, out to the parking lot, up to the bar—but Castiel hardly notices any of it. Yeah, he pours drinks and serves appetizers, but the only thing going through his head right now is _ trivia questions_.

Dean laughs every time Castiel catches his eye, but there’s always something in his gaze that warms Castiel to his core, and he can’t think of a single thing for a good few seconds after that. But, then it’s back to trivia.

Sam comes over to check on the progression of things every now and then, and every time, Castiel tells him to “_ grab a drink and stop distracting me. _ ” Dean tells Castiel to chill a little, but Sam just laughs and tells his brother to _ chill_.

“Dean!” Castiel shouts into the kitchen, barely taking the time to stick his head through the doors before refocusing on his notebook.

“Yeah, my love?” Dean says as he settles a hand on the small of Castiel’s back, totally calm amidst the chaos that is Castiel.

“This question,” he says as he stabs a scribbled line in his notebook before glancing over at Dean to make sure he sees it, too. “Do you think it’s too easy?”

Dean reads the question out loud to himself, murmuring it under his breath, “Forty-one percent of U.S. women believe that what nationality men make the best husbands?” He pauses, thinking. “Uh, Italian?”

Castiel scowls at him.

“What? They love their mothers, they can probably cook _ real _ well, and they’re fucking _ hot_. I’d say it’s a pretty good answer.” Dean shrugs as Castiel rolls his eyes.

“The answer is ‘Canadian,’ jackass.” He turns back to his notebook, deciding to keep that one for the first round.

“_ Canadian_? _ Really_? What the fuck is so special about _ Canadians_?” Dean pinches his face up in distaste and shakes his head. 

“Ask forty-one percent of women,” Castiel snarks back, turning to wrap his arms around Dean’s shoulders, as he does his best to mimic a Southern accent. “I prefer Kansas boys, myself.”

Dean throws his head back, laughing loud enough to draw attention, before dipping his chin to kiss Castiel soft and slow. “Was that supposed to be a Southern accent?” he asks against Castiel’s lips.

“I thought I did alright.” Castiel presses another quick kiss to Dean’s lip before pulling away to speak, but he’s barely opened his mouth when the café’s phone starts ringing. He sighs, “I need to get that.”

“Leave it—it’s probably Gabriel,” Dean whispers back, but he lets Castiel pull away.

“High Tide Café, Castiel speaking.”

“Hey, baby bro! Have you started yet?” Castiel’s eyes flick over to Dean, who’s watching him from where Castiel left him. Dean grins and shakes his head when Castiel narrows his eyes, letting him know he was right about it being Gabriel.

“Just about to. What do you need?”

“Oh, good. I’m asking the questions. Put the speaker up to the mic,” Gabriel says and Castiel’s excitement sours. 

He scowls at his brother’s words, even though Gabriel can’t see him. “That’s not going to work—there’ll be too much feedback,” Castiel says instead of what he wants to say, which is, “_ piss off and let me have this. _”

“No, no. See, I got the good stuff! There’s no feedback, no matter what you do. It’s great! Now, come on—put me in, coach!” 

Castiel wracks his brain for a way out of this, but he keeps coming up short and he needs to start the first round soon. “Where’s Kali? Why aren’t you out… I don’t know—eating baguettes and drinking wine, or something?”

“We’re not in _ France_, chucklehead,” Gabriel huffs down the line. “Besides, Kali’s off with some friends she met at a bar a couple nights ago. I’m _ bored_.”

Castiel’s desperation spikes and in his panic, he hangs up, staring at the phone for a few seconds before it starts to ring again. He disconnects it.

With that dealt with, he rounds the counter, grabbing his notebook as he goes, and steps behind the mic, ignoring his phone as it buzzes in his back pocket.

He clears his throat and takes ahold of the mic. “Hello? Good evening, everyone.” There’s not even a squeak of feedback—his voice comes through, clear as anything. The room quiets down and Castiel continues. “Welcome to High Tide Café’s first-ever trivia night. I hope you have all grabbed yourself something to drink because we’re about to get started. Your team should have signed up with Dean over there.” Castiel points to where Dean is standing across the café with a clipboard in hand. 

Dean waves, a charming smile on his handsome face, and holds up his clipboard. After a moment, Castiel waves him over so Dean can speak into the mic.

“Can you tell us the first two teams, please?” Castiel leans into Dean’s side so he can see the clipboard as Dean reads.

“Yeah, so the first two teams are team… I Am Smarticus?” Dean finds Sam in the crowd, who’s grinning back at him, and gives him an unimpressed look. “Really, Sam? Are you five?” 

Castiel can’t hold back a grin.

“The second team…” Dean taps his pen on the page, shaking his head with a huff. “The Quizzards of Oz. Good one, Charlie.”

Charlie lets out a whoop of excitement as Castiel takes the mic back from Dean and shuffles him out of the way. 

“Team captains, please step up to your buzzer.” Castiel’s grin widens as his excitement reaches new heights—he’s practically trembling by the time he finds his first question and reads off the rules. “I will read the question, and only after I have finished will you be able to ring your buzzer. If you ring it before I finish, the other team will get the first guess. Once the buzzer is rung, you will have twenty seconds to answer before it goes to the other team. Every correct answer is worth one point, and the first team to ten points wins. Got it?”

Both teams nod.

“Okay, we’ll start off with an easy one.” He clears his throat. “What is the official nickname of Texas?” He looks out at both teams, who pause for a second before Sam slaps the buzzer.

“The Lone Star State,” he answers, and Castiel nods.

“I’m surprised it took you so long,” he says as he marks down a point for Sam’s team. The café is fairly quiet, but people still chat and laugh at the tables surrounding the trivia teams. Mostly, they’re ignoring the game, but some are paying attention as Castiel goes through the questions and gets more and more frustrated with every question the teams can’t answer.

“Um… Canada?” Is Charlie’s answer to the question, “_What’s the largest continent in the world? _” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Seriously? Do you really think _ Canada _ is a continent? It’s not even the biggest _ country_, which, for your information, is _ Russia_.” This is Castiel’s _ seventeenth _ question and, so far, both teams are tied at three points each. “Sam? Does your team have an answer?” He looks over at Sam who is discussing with Jess and Aaron, before he looks up at Castiel, a little wary. 

“Australia!” Aaron shouts before Sam has a chance to speak, and his face pinches up as he cringes.

Castiel scowls. “Sure, Australia is correct… if I were looking for the _ smallest _ continent.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “The correct answer is Asia.” He takes a sip of the vodka-cranberry Dean brought him to, in Dean’s words, “ _ loosen you up a little. _” Whatever that means.

When he sets his drink back down, both teams have lost several members. “Hey, hey! Where did everyone go? The game’s not even close to being over yet!” He glances at Sam, but he’s staring down at his drink, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Sam? Where’s your team?” He doesn’t answer, so Castiel looks at Charlie. “Charlie?”

“Cas,” Dean whispers in his ear, but Castiel barely glances at him as a bitter feeling twists his gut. “Cas.” Dean pulls him around so he’s looking into Dean’s hesitant green eyes. “I think—baby, I think you need to chill a little bit. This isn’t fun.”

Castiel knows Dean isn’t trying to hurt him—he knows he’s just trying to be honest—but it doesn’t stop his stomach from dropping, or his heart clenching. It doesn’t stop the hurt from flooding him, and he knows Dean sees it from the change in his face, but Castiel just gives him a jerky nod as he hands over the mic and hurries to the kitchen with his head down and his drink in his hand.

He doesn’t cry—he’s not a child—but he wants to. His throat closes up and his eyes burn as he shuts himself away in his office. He just wanted tonight to go perfectly, but every time he tried, he was shut down. Why couldn’t it just go _ his _ way for once? Why does _ trivia _have to be ruined for him, too?

He knows he’s being dramatic, but right now, he doesn’t care. He’s angry and upset—and a little drunk—so he just _ doesn’t care_. He pours himself another drink from his desk stash—the same vodka-cranberry he always has—and downs it, hoping the flood of alcohol will calm his emotions enough so he doesn’t lose it on everyone.

He’s on his third drink when there’s a knock on his door, and Dean’s head peeks around it. “Hey,” Dean says, his voice soft and hesitant.

Castiel grunts and swivels to face the wall to his right. He’s not _ really _mad at Dean, but Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, come _ on_, Cas. You’re not really mad at me.” Dean takes a step into the room and closes the door behind him.

Okay, so Dean already knows it, but Castiel turns to face the back wall, anyway.

He hears Dean sigh, and it’s closer than he expected. “Tell me,” Dean says, and his voice is so soft and pleading that Castiel turns his chair to face the left wall. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Cas, baby—_talk _to me. I… I didn’t mean to upset you, okay?”

Finally, Castiel turns the rest of the way to face Dean. He doesn’t look at him, though, choosing instead to focus somewhere around his chest.

Dean leans forward a little. “Jesus—Cas, are you _ drunk_?”

“No,” Castiel murmurs while shaking his head. He pauses, then nods. “Yes.”

A quiet laugh falls from Dean’s lips and he grabs Castiel’s wrists, pulling his arms apart and the chair closer all in one move. Castiel would be impressed if he wasn’t so drunk. “Hey,” Dean whispers, tipping Castiel’s face up with a finger under his chin. “Talk to me.”

Castiel sighs and leans back in his chair, his eyes still on Dean. “I just…” He shrugs. “I was having a good time, but…” The burning feeling of rejection seeps into his gut again. “I just wanted everyone to have _ fun_, Dean. I was so excited for this, but they just—” He cuts himself off and throws his hands up before letting them fall to his lap as his throat burns and tears prickle his eyes.

Dean looks at him with sad eyes as he reaches for Castiel’s hands. “Baby, it’s not that we weren’t having fun, it’s just—”

“Me. I’m the problem.”

Dean huffs. “Quit being so goddamn _ dramatic_,” he snaps. “And don’t interrupt me.” Castiel narrows his eyes at his boyfriend but keeps his mouth shut for now. “You gotta stop with the insults, man. That’s it. That’s the _ only _problem. You can answer all the questions you’d like—hell, I’ll be on your team!” Dean holds both hands out to his sides and raises an eyebrow. “But not everyone is a trivia genius like you.”

Castiel tries to fight it, but a smile slowly spreads across his face, and Dean rolls his eyes when he sees it. “You think I’m a trivia genius?”

“Shut up.” Dean stands, pulling Castiel to his feet as well. He stumbles, the room dipping a little to the left before Dean catches him. “Alright, no more of this for you.” Dean shoves Castiel’s vodka bottle into his desk drawer and downs the rest of his vodka-cranberry with a scowl. “God, how do you drink that crap?”

“S’good,” Castiel replies, holding on tight to Dean’s waist as he’s led back out to the café. “I should call Gabe back.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, giving Castiel some serious side-eye. “Can’t imagine he’s too happy.”

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Castiel says on a sigh as he trips over his own feet on his way to plug the phone back in. Dean catches him, repositioning him by the counter as he plugs in the phone before dialing Gabriel’s number. 

“Hey, Gabe.” Dean cringes, pulling the phone away from his ear for a bit until the yelling quiets down. “Yeah, no, he accidentally unplugged it and didn’t realize.”

Castiel scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest as his bottom lip sticks out in a pout, but Dean just shrugs.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Do you want to play, or not?” Dean listens for a few more seconds before rounding the counter and positioning the phone so that it’s right by the mic.

“Yo!” Gabriel shouts through the phone, and it’s amplified through the speakers so that everyone hears. Castiel would never admit it to his brother, but it _ is _ a pretty good setup. “I can hear myself; that must mean it’s working. Is everybody ready for some _ trivia_?” Gabriel shouts with a game show host voice.

Dean sits Castiel down in front of a buzzer. “Sam!” he calls across the café, waving him over before sitting next to Castiel. Dean’s smile is bright, and Castiel can’t help the warmth that suffuses him. He’s so goddamn grateful for Dean—for everything he’s done for him—and he pulls him into a sloppy kiss, his fist tangling in the front of Dean’s shirt as his tongue delves into his mouth. “What’s that for?” Dean pants when Castiel pulls back. 

Castiel hums and turns toward the phone, where Gabriel is finishing up his vocal exercises. The other team—made up of Hannah, Charlie, and Ash—sit at the table next to theirs, drinking and laughing loudly.

Castiel turns away, trying his best to focus through the fog of alcohol in his brain. Dean wraps his arm around the back of Castiel’s chair and it _ definitely _doesn’t help.

“Okay, first question. What are the most often ordered item from sex companies?” Silence hangs heavy in the air as neither team goes for their buzzer.

“Are you kidding me?” Castiel whines. “He used to ask me these kinds of questions on a daily basis. Usually at church. Or during school speeches.”

“Well, if you know the answer, _ press _ the _ buzzer_,” Dean says, nudging Castiel’s foot with his own.

“Oh!” Castiel shouts, lunging for the buzzer as he says the answer. “Novelty condoms!”

“That’s correct! See, I told you it would come in handy, didn’t I, Cassie,” Gabriel says, but Castiel ignores him.

“Ask the next question.” Castiel can feel the excitement building in him again as he hovers his hands over the buzzer. Dean chuckles softly but lets him have his fun as he chats with Sam, keeping his arm wrapped around Castiel the entire time.

He wins with a clean sweep—ten to zero—and he couldn’t be happier. Charlie high-fives him, Ash fist-bumps, and Hannah shakes his hand. Dean kisses him through a smile.

After a few more rounds—and a lot more drinks snuck to him by Sam behind Dean’s back—they close up for the night. Castiel is sent back to his office to wait while Dean, Hannah, and Charlie clean up. He spins around in his chair, head tipped back and bored out of his mind, for what feels like hours, until Sam and Jess come in.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says as he steps in. Castiel plants his feet on the ground to stop the chair from spinning, but it doesn’t seem to work as the room just keeps going round and round.

“Sam,” he slurs, smiling wide as his eyes droop closed.

Jess comes in after Sam, a smile on her face when she sees Castiel. He smiles back at her and closes his eyes. 

“Hey, Cas! Great event!” She sits down on the edge of his desk and holds his chair steady.

“You think so?” He looks her dead in the eye, as steadily as he can manage. “You really had fun?” He glances between her and Sam, who is nodding emphatically, his smile wide and genuine.

“Yeah, of course. Trivia is always fun,” Sam says as he sits down next to Jess. “It’s been a while since we’ve been to a good trivia night.” He looks at Castiel a little more closely. “How’d you know all that sex trivia, by the way?”

Castiel chuckles. “My brother’s a sex fiend. Used to put me on the spot all the time with questions—was easier just answerin’ than tryin’ to ignore him.”

“Really?” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he laughs. “Sounds like an interesting guy.”

Castiel nods, grinning a little at the thought of his brother. “That, he is. Dean knows ’im pretty well, too. Gave ’im a job here.”

“Yeah, I remember Dean saying something about a guy named Gabriel—” Jess is cut off by a knock on the door before Dean steps in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, looking between the three of them before his eyes settle on Castiel’s. “But it’s time we get going.”

Sam and Jess straighten up, saying goodbye to Castiel before turning to hug Dean. Sometimes Castiel wishes his own brother was here to hug.

“We’re still on for dinner when you get back From California, right?” Dean asks when he pulls out of Sam’s hug.

“For sure. Let us know when you’re both free.”

“Will do,” Dean says with one last smile and wave. Then they’re alone. “Alright, Drinking Miss Daisy, let’s get you home.” Castiel snorts at the nickname as Dean grabs his hands and pulls him out of the chair, holding him close to his chest as he kisses Castiel’s hair. “Come on.”

Castiel is led through the kitchen, and Dean turns the lights off as they go until he’s propped against the outside wall beside the door as Dean locks up.

“How come we always go to my place?” Castiel asks as Dean wraps an arm around his waist and starts leading him down the hill.

Dean scrunches up his nose, thinking, before looking down at Castiel with a shrug. “Your bed is more comfy, and, right now, you're stupid drunk, and your place is closer.”

“Hmm…” Castiel hums. “You’re right—my place is better.” He grins wickedly as Dean rolls his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“You love me,” Castiel sighs, leaning more heavily into Dean’s side as they make it to Castiel’s driveway where the Impala sits, her dark paint reflecting the moonlight. 

“Yeah.” Dean leads him around the house and up the porch steps, unlocking the door before shuffling Castiel inside. Dean doesn’t bother turning on the lights, focusing instead on getting to the bedroom without tripping over each other, and Castiel falls into the middle of his bed, face down.

He grumbles when Dean strips off his clothes and shifts him to the side, crawling in beside him before wrapping Castiel in his arms. It’s nice, and Castiel falls asleep fast and easy once they’ve both settled.

The next morning, Castiel opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. His head is pounding like crazy and his stomach twists.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

He groans, covering his flaming cheeks as he remembers everything he did last night. The _ hardcore _ trivia excitement… the drinking… a temper tantrum in his office… _more _ drinking… making a fool of himself by _ answering _ Gabriel’s ridiculous questions… and a _ stupid _amount of drinking. 

“So… you remember last night, then,” Dean says, amusement clear in his voice as he pokes one of Castiel’s hot cheeks. 

“I’m never leaving my house again.” His voice is muffled behind his hands, but he doesn’t care—he knows Dean can hear him anyway.

“As much as I’m game for that, you’re coming with me to the café.” Castiel feels the bed shift as Dean gets up—hears his feet on the floor and the dresser drawers sliding open and closed—but Castiel doesn’t move.

“I don’t want to,” Castiel whines, rolling onto his front to block out the harsh light streaming in through the open curtains.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have paychecks to sign and inventory to do.” Dean tosses some clothes on Castiel, and he throws them back.

“Fuck off, I did that four days ago.” He buries his face deeper into his pillow, but that doesn’t stop Dean from rolling him over and snatching it away before pressing a quick peck to Castiel’s lips and tossing his clothes on top of him.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have coffee and the café does. Get up and get dressed. I’ll be in the car in five minutes, and if you’re not there, you’re gonna have to walk.” Dean kisses him one more time before straightening up and heading for the door.

Castiel grumbles under his breath, glaring at the back of Dean’s head. “I’ve got a father, already, thanks. Don’t fucking need another one.”

“What was that?” Dean asks, turning back around, only to be met with Castiel’s best _ fuck you _face and a t-shirt to the head. 

He leaves after that, and Castiel just barely makes it to the car on time before Dean pulls out.

The car ride to the café is mostly quiet—Castiel is still pouting and Dean whistles a tune he doesn’t know—but their hands are tangled together on the seat between them and it’s enough for Castiel.

They walk through the door, hand in hand, and Castiel can feel his face heating with every step closer to the register where Hannah and Charlie stand, chatting about something he can’t hear. 

Castiel shuffles up to the counter, unable to meet their eyes as he fidgets. With one more deep breath, he speaks. “Hannah, Charlie. I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It was unprofessional and out of hand, and I’m sorry.” He nods, his face flushing hotter than he thought it could.

Charlie’s eyebrows furrow as she looks at him. “What are you talking about? Last night was great.”

“Uh…” Castiel’s face screws up in confusion as they stare at him. He was an embarrassment—how can they not remember?

“Seriously,” Hannah says, a small smile on her face. “It was fun. We’re all just glad you got so much enjoyment out of it. It’s nice to see.” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say, and he’s dangerously close to tears as their words hit him. He blinks hard, forcing them back as he gives them a weak smile. 

Dean orders them both coffee and breakfast, but Castiel doesn’t hear any of it as an unfamiliar warmth spreads through him, and he realizes that these people… the people he calls his employees—and sometimes friends and _ family_—really _ do _care for him. It’s a little overwhelming, but the longer he has to settle into the feeling, the wider his smile grows until his cheeks ache with it.


	11. Sun Showers

**Time After: 3 months, 4 days**

Castiel smiles up at the lady in blue when she sets a plate of food down on the table in front of him. He eats it without noticing what it is, how it smells, or even how it tastes, and feels the world let out a sigh of relief. 

He doesn’t know when the last time he ate was, but he doesn’t feel hungry so he doesn’t really care. The ladies and gentlemen in blue smile, though, and that’s nice. They’ve been doing that more and more often lately and, sometimes, Castiel smiles back.

He can hear the chatter in the room, but he doesn’t notice the other people, choosing to sit at a table by himself next to a window to keep the shadows at bay. They’re still there, though—they’re always there.

When he’s about halfway done his food, he stops—too exhausted to take another bite. His arms feel weighed down by lead, and he can’t quite focus on details—just shapes and colors—but that’s normal. He’s used to it.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but eventually, two gentlemen in blue come to take him to the common room. They sit him down on a nice, white couch by a window, and one of them sits in the chair opposite, while the other disappears. 

Castiel thinks the man tries to talk to him, but he can’t hear. Everything goes a little bit quiet in here—maybe it’s all the screaming—but he can see the man’s mouth moving, so there must be words coming out of him.

Castiel is interrupted from his train of thought by a pretty brunette woman and the second gentleman in blue. She’s not like the ladies in blue—she wears a white coat like the man they call The Doctor—and she smiles at Castiel like she knows him, but he doesn’t recognize her. Her lips are moving, too, but he can’t hear her.

Castiel stands, ignoring the looks of unease on all three of them, and shuffles to the doors that open up into the gardens. He pushes through them, wandering into the grass and kicking off his shoes—he loves the dirt between his toes—before making his way to a bench and taking a seat.

It’s quieter out here—he can hear better—and the pretty brunette sits beside him. Castiel doesn’t look at her when she speaks.

“Hey, Castiel. Remember me? It’s Pam.” She clears her throat. “Pamela Barnes. From Sandover Island?” 

Castiel doesn’t answer, but he hears her. A bee catches his attention and he smiles at it, following it with his eyes.

“I thought… well, I thought you might want to hear how things are going. At home, that is.” _ Home_, Castiel thinks. _ I miss home. _ Which is silly, really. Castiel doesn’t even know what _ home _is. “The, uh… High Tide Café is doing well. Hannah hired Jo on, and Ellen has taken a few shifts here and there. There haven’t been any more game nights, which is a shame.” She laughs a little, but it’s strained.

Castiel digs his toes into the grass, feeling the wet earth. It must have rained at some point—Castiel is sad he missed it.

“And your house… I’ve been taking care of it. You know, dusting and all that. Not that it’s really _ dirty _ since… well, you know.” 

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask, though—he doesn’t really care.

“I know Gabriel has been around. He hasn’t been back on the island, but he calls. He says you’ve been doing better.”

A warm breeze drifts through the garden and Castiel closes his eyes, smiling as it caresses his cheeks. It smells like salt, and sand, and… and… _home_.

The man they call The Doctor joins them and the lady named Pam stands. Castiel doesn’t move, and just barely hears their conversation between the chirping birds.

“How did he do?”

“Good, I think.”

A cricket jumps onto Castiel’s knee and he watches as it rubs its wings together, a high chirp sounding in the air before it jumps away.

“Any response?”

“Not verbal, but he smiled when I talked about the island and his brother.”

Castiel watches the cricket land beside his discarded shoe. It chirps again. Castiel smiles.

“Hm… yes, that’s good. He’s making progress, it seems.”

Pam sighs, “That’s wonderful.”

The cricket sits for a minute, its chirps quieting a little when the doctor shifts on his feet. Castiel starts to wonder what it’s like to be that small—that delicate and breakable—but he thinks that maybe he already knows.

“Yes, well… we’ll see.”

“Keep me updated.” Pam’s face is suddenly in front of Castiel’s. “Goodbye, sweet Castiel. Come home soon.”

Castiel just stares. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t know where this _ home is_.

**Time Left: 3 months, 1 week, 5 days**

“Dean! Grab me another tray of muffins—the blueberry-lemon,” Castiel shouts through the kitchen doors before turning back to help the next customer. Summer break is in full swing now, with school out and all the tourists coming down to their tiny island town for summer vacation. He’s been busy every minute of every day for the past three weeks, especially since trivia night was such a hit—everyone just wants _ more_.

Some days he feels like he never sees Dean and he misses him like crazy. He gets home well after nine o’clock and he’s so exhausted that he crashes immediately, then gets back up for the five o’clock baking shift the next morning. Dean stays over every night, though, not bothering with heading back to his apartment, and Castiel’s grateful for it. Dean is his light—sometimes he’s the only thing keeping Castiel going—and he doesn’t know what he’d do without Dean cheering him on.

Dean pushes through the doors with a tray in his hands and sweat dripping from his brow. He looks exhausted, too, and Castiel takes a moment to look at him as he takes the tray. His shoulders sag as he practically drags his feet, and something about his eyes screams at Castiel.

He sets the muffins aside and steps back into the kitchen with Dean. “Come sit,” Castiel says, leading Dean by the hand to his office.

“Cas, I’ve got—”

“Sit,” he orders, pointing at the chair.

“Really, I’m fine—” Dean looks at it longingly but doesn’t sit, turning back to Castiel instead and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Dean,” Castiel growls and Dean rolls his eyes but finally sits. 

“I don’t need you coddling me. No special treatment, remember?” he snarks before leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.

Castiel sits down on his desk, his eyes roaming over Dean’s exhausted body as he speaks. He nudges Dean’s knee with his toe. “I’d make any one of my staff take a break if they looked as exhausted as you do.”

Dean opens his eyes to glare at him but doesn’t respond as he lays his head back. There’s an almost sickly sheen to Dean’s skin and Castiel starts to really worry for the first time that he might have some kind of cold—or the flu, even—but Dean doesn’t _ act _sick—just tired as hell.

When Dean shifts in the chair, Castiel notices how he winces. Is he sore? Has he done anything to actually _ make _ himself sore? It’s not like Dean exercises regularly, so it’s not that. Maybe it’s all the sex? They have a lot of that, and it _ can _ get pretty strenuous. 

Castiel looks at him more closely, thinking maybe Dean’s lost a bit of weight, too. He hasn’t noticed, but maybe Dean _ is _ exercising when he’s off and Castiel’s not. Who knows, maybe he’s laying off the treats, too? Castiel doesn’t mind his soft stomach—he finds it adorable, actually—and he’ll take Dean whatever way he can get him. Dean knows that, doesn’t he? He should, but it’s not like Castiel has actually _ said the words_.

Worry spikes inside him and he starts to wonder if it’s _ him _ that’s causing all this exhaustion in Dean. Is he working him too hard? Does he make too many jokes about Dean’s adorable tummy? He doesn’t mean them—not really—he just loves to tease him about anything and everything—loves the way he grumbles under his breath or tells Castiel to piss off, even. He _ loves _him. Every part of him.

Castiel opens his mouth to ask, but Dean is pushing himself up from the chair. He plants one hand on Castiel’s cheek and a kiss on the other before leaving the office. 

Castiel stands, slack-jawed, in the middle of the room, wondering just how bad he is at this whole relationship thing.

**Time Left: 3 months, 1 week, 4 days**

“Hey, Cas? Can I talk to you for a sec?” Dean stands only feet away from him, shifting from foot to foot as Castiel pours coffee for Mrs. Moseley. 

He doesn’t look at Dean as he replies. “Kinda busy right now.” He hands over the coffee and rings it up as Mrs. Moseley hands over the change. “Have a wonderful day,” he says with a smile before moving to take Ellen’s order. “What can I get you today?”

“Cas, this is super important—”

“So are my customers,” Castiel says, shooting Dean a glare over his shoulder. When he catches the look in Dean’s eyes, though, he pauses, looking him over for a moment before nodding. “Let me take care of Ellen, here, first. I’ll see you in my office.” His voice softens as he meets Dean’s eyes—a little pained and a lot nervous—but he’ll speak with him in a minute.

Dean nods and Castiel watches as he turns away, stumbling a little before catching himself and pushing through the kitchen doors.

He goes through the motions of pouring Ellen’s dark-roast coffee and wrapping her slice of banana loaf, but his mind is on what Dean could possibly want to talk about—could he be leaving him? Castiel has never been in a relationship before, but he’s heard that _ we need to talk _is never a good omen.

It takes him three tries to ring in Ellen’s order properly and, eventually, Hannah takes over, shooing him into the back room. He almost doesn’t want to go as dread starts sinking in his stomach, souring his mood and putting him on edge.

Dean is sitting the same way he was yesterday when Castiel made him take an impromptu break—head back and eyes closed in his desk chair—but his eyes snap open when Castiel closes the door behind him. He stands with his back resting against it, almost too afraid to look at Dean, but he does.

Dean’s eyes are the same—beautiful green and filled with a dull pain—and Castiel’s pulse ratchets up a notch.

Dean pulls in a long, shuddering breath and sits forward, folding his hands in his lap as he looks up at Castiel. “I, um… can I get the afternoon off?”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrow as he tilts his head. “What for?” If Dean needed the afternoon off, why hadn’t he asked two weeks ago when Castiel made the schedule?

He lets out a burst of air and starts to fidget, wiping one hand over his mouth as he looks down at the other. “I—” He clears his throat. “I have a… uh, a doctor’s appointment at three.”

Castiel’s around the desk in a second as worry spikes in his heart. His eyes scan over Dean, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but he looks the same, if not a little more tired. “Is everything okay? Is it about your hands?” Castiel has noticed they’ve gotten worse. Dean drops things far more often now—he’s seen how he flexes his fingers and massages his knuckles—but he didn’t think they had gotten _ that _bad.

“Uh, yeah. Just a check-in to see how it’s progressed.” Dean still won’t look at him, staring down at his hands. The tremble is much more noticeable than when Castiel first met him.

“They still don’t know what’s causing it, then?” Castiel wants to reach out to him—to run his fingers through Dean’s hair and offer him comfort—but somehow, he doesn’t think it’ll be well-received right now, so he keeps his hands to himself.

“No,” Dean murmurs, and something in his voice tells Castiel it’s not exactly true, but he doesn’t push. Maybe Dean just doesn’t want to worry him with something he doesn’t know for sure? That’s what Castiel chooses to believe, anyway. 

“Well… okay, I guess.” He stalls, waiting for Dean to say more—to _ explain _more—but he doesn’t. “Are you staying over tonight?”

Dean shrugs, still staring at his hands, picking at his nails. “Depends how I feel after—probably.” He shrugs again.

“Do you want me to come with you?” He could—he could close the café and go with him.

“No,” Dean says, his head snapping up too fast. It’s like a slap in the face and Castiel jerks back, hurt and confused, but he pushes it down as Dean sighs. “No, it’s nothing, okay? You’ll just get worried and I don’t want that.” He tries for a smile but Castiel sees right through it—Dean is scared, but he doesn’t want Castiel there. 

“Okay,” he whispers, still wondering what he did wrong. “I… should get back to work.” He looks over his shoulder at the closed office door. He can’t hear the chatter of the café from here, but he knows it’s still busy. “What time do you need to leave?”

Dean looks over Castiel’s shoulder at the clock ticking away on the wall. “Now, actually.” His eyes fall to Castiel, who just nods as he pushes up off the desk. “Cas…” Castiel stops, glancing back at Dean.

Dean’s eyes soften as he takes a step forward into his space. With one hand brushing Castiel’s cheek and the other resting on his waist, Dean pulls him in, kissing him lightly… softly… before stepping away.

“I’ll come back after.”

“Okay,” Castiel whispers.

“I love you.” Dean smiles.

“Okay.” Castiel smiles back.

Dean left hours ago and Castiel was sure he’d have heard something by now, but Dean is radio silent. Appointments can’t take _ this _long, can they? It’s almost seven-thirty—the café closes in half an hour—and there’s been no sign of Dean.

He’s just about to grab his phone and call when the staff door swings open and Dean stumbles through, looking more exhausted than he did when he left this afternoon. Castiel drops whatever was in his hands and hurries over to him, his eyes scanning over his body as worry curls in his stomach. “Hey, I thought you’d be back by now.”

Dean only shrugs and pulls Castiel into a hug, holding him tight as he buries his face in his neck. “God, I hate hospitals.”

“What took so long?” Castiel asks as he runs his hands over Dean’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine beneath his fingers.

He feels Dean shrug. “Busy day in the ER, I guess.”

Castiel pulls away as panic floods him. He holds Dean at arm’s length as he searches him frantically. “You were in the ER?” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head as he huffs a laugh. “But all the doctors must’ve been. I didn’t get to see one for, like, _ three _hours.” He shrugs as he pulls Castiel back in. “Hug me; I missed you.”

So Castiel does. He holds Dean close, hands tangled in his dirty work shirt and nose pressed to his skin as they sway gently back and forth.

“Take me home,” Dean whispers and Castiel nods against his shoulder.

“Wait for me in the office; I’ll only be a bit longer.” Castiel pulls away, turning Dean’s tired body toward the office door, before gently nudging him in that direction. He watches him drag his feet as he goes, the slump of his shoulders making him seem so tired—so run-down—and Castiel’s worry only grows.

He turns away and grabs a broom to sweep up the shattered plates he let fall to the floor.

**Time Left: 3 months, 1 week, 3 days**

Sam shows up early the next day, unannounced, and walks in on Castiel deep-throating Dean as he eats his breakfast. 

With his head tipped forward and moan after moan falling from his lips, Dean doesn’t notice he’s there until a god-awful yell startles them both, and their heads snap around in time to see Sam’s horrified expression before he flees back out to the porch.

Needless to say, Sam knocks before he tries to come in again.

Dean opens the still-squeaky screen door and grins up at his little brother, who smiles awkwardly in return, cheeks pink and refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. Castiel watches from his position leaning against the counter drying dishes, a smirk on his face as he listens to Sam stumble through a greeting.

“Dean, hi, uh…” He shuffles his feet. “Long time, no see.”

Castiel chuckles and turns away to stack the plates in the cupboard. “Oh, yeah… a whole ten minutes,” Castiel mumbles under his breath. 

He’s not sure why he’s not more embarrassed, but he isn’t. He finds it hilarious, actually. The look on Sam’s face when he stepped inside is burned into his mind, and he can’t help the laugh that falls from his lips as he thinks about it again.

“Don’t be an ass, Cas,” Dean says over his shoulder as he lets Sam in, who’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt today since he and Dean are headed to the beach.

“What can I say? I guess you’re rubbing off on me,” he says with a shrug and a shit-eating grin as both brothers groan in unison. 

“Ready to go?” Sam asks, shifting from foot to foot—itching to get away from Castiel’s teasing, he would guess. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, grabbing his bag before stepping into Castiel’s space and pulling him into a long, slow kiss—all tongue, too. Guess he’s not _ that _embarrassed. Sam clears his throat once, but they ignore him and Castiel can feel Dean’s grin against his lips as Sam clears his throat again—louder this time.

“I’ll see you,” Castiel says as he pushes Dean away and gets back to the dishes.

“Love you!” Dean calls over his shoulder as Sam drags him through the door. 

Castiel smiles after them. “I love you, too,” he says softly, but only after the door closes behind them.

“Yeah, I’ll get an iced coffee, black, two sugars.” 

Castiel takes down the order and gets to making it. The day has been crazy busy and Castiel is exhausted, but there’s no time to stop—not yet, anyway.

He hands the drink over and doesn’t even look up at the next customer as he speaks, cleaning a coffee spill off the counter at the same time. “What can I get for you today?”

“Can I get lunch with my boyfriend on the patio, please?” Castiel’s head snaps up at the sound of Dean’s voice, and he smiles when he sees that damn smirk. “Oh, and a turkey club on white, too. Extra mayo and cheese.” He pauses, before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and none of that rabbit food—take all that off, would you?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting back a grin. “I’ll get you the sandwich, but, sadly, I’m too busy for lunch,” he says as he puts in the order and gets to making the sandwich almost from muscle memory.

“Oh, come on!” Dean whines, pouting as he pulls out his card.

Castiel ignores him, looking past him to Sam, instead, and asking for his order. 

“Corned beef on rye—no cheese, light mustard, please.” Castiel nods and grabs two more slices of bread.

“Throw in a tuna wrap on wheat, too, would you? Lettuce, tomato, and cucumber,” Dean says, and Castiel rolls his eyes again, knowing his own order as soon as Dean says it.

“I _can’t_, Dean.”

“Yes, you can. It’s not _ that _ busy in here and you need a break.” Dean leans in closer, a warning in his eyes. “Unless you want me to _ make _it less busy.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Castiel glares, but Dean only raises his eyebrow. “Do it and you’re fired.”

“I’ve got tons of money, baby—I don’t need this job. So, try me.” Fuck, Dean would, too. The last thing he needs is Dean stripping in the middle of his café and windmilling his dick around.

“You fucking asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. Make that wrap, would you?” He grins at Castiel and pays Hannah for all three sandwiches. “With love,” he adds and Castiel shoots him a withering glare.

“I’ll make _ yours _ with something, alright—extra spit,” he mumbles under his breath.

Castiel tries to fight it—he holds onto his scowl for as long as he can—but a small smile turns up his lips as he makes himself food, adding some ranch dressing and feta cheese, too. He knows Dean is just looking out for him—making sure he doesn’t make himself sick by working himself too hard—and he loves him for it.

Sam and Dean find a table out on the patio as Castiel finishes up, plating the sandwiches before letting Hannah and Charlie know he’s going on lunch. He takes out the food and sets everything on the table before sliding into the chair next to Dean.

When Castiel looks at Dean, he finds him already staring back, smiling softly with his chin resting on one hand. His cheeks and nose are a little pinker than they were when he left this morning, and his hair is tousled and wet from the salty seawater. He looks happy and Castiel’s heart melts at the sight. 

They eat their food, chatting about their day and Sam’s time in California. It’s nice, and Castiel thinks he could definitely get used to this as his new normal. It’s a terrifying thought, but he wants it, too. His stomach flips and tells him to run, while his heart leaps and tells him to hold on as tightly as he can. And he does, holding Dean’s hand under the table as they eat—letting Dean wipe away the glob of ranch that misses his mouth—and staring into Dean’s eyes every time he looks over and catches him looking back with that fond smile.

The sun is warm on his face and there’s just enough of a breeze to keep him comfortable as he watches the other customers enjoy their food. He sometimes wonders what he’d have done with his life if he and Gabriel hadn’t opened the café. Would he have ended up in the hardware store where his dad worked, selling garden hoses and shovels to tourists and locals, alike? Would he have left the island to be closer to his brother? Would he have met _ Dean_? That last thought scares him the most because he’s not so sure, honestly, and he doesn’t really want to think about it. 

When they’re done eating and Castiel needs to get back, he stands, but Dean seems reluctant to let him go. He holds his hand all the way back to the kitchen, which makes carrying their dishes a little awkward with one hand, but they manage, even with the stares and snickers they get from Charlie and Hannah.

“Get back to work,” he barks over his shoulder as he pulls Dean through the doors. Dean chuckles and shakes his head, his grin wide and happy. 

“God, you’re such a hard-ass,” Dean says as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist and presses their fronts together.

Castiel warms at the touch, softening his expression almost unknowingly as he looks up at Dean with a sly smirk. “A hard-ass with a nice ass?” He grins playfully at Dean, shimmying closer as he wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, running his fingers through his hair.

“That, too.” He leans in for a kiss, just barely touching their lips together as they breathe each other’s air. Castiel’s heart thuds as he steps even closer, feeling Dean’s warmth through his clothes and in every part of him. Dean deepens the kiss as they sway, holding on tight to each other as the world moves around them.

“Let’s go!” Sam shouts through the door.

They pull away with a huff and a sigh. “I’m going to have to give him shit for going behind the counter,” Castiel says, looking over Dean’s shoulder at the closed double doors.

“Might have to ban him,” Dean adds, grinning mischievously. Castiel leans in one more time, kissing him softly—trying to tell him how much he loves him without words—but he doesn’t know if he succeeds or not because they’re interrupted by the banging of the swinging doors and Sam’s voice.

“I don’t have all day, Dean—”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen!” Castiel yells, pointing at Sam as he glares. Sam jumps, getting his head caught in the doors as he tries to pull back, before finally getting unstuck and disappearing back into the café.

Castiel looks at Dean, who is almost pissing himself, doubled over with laughter at Sam’s expense, and he can’t help but smile, too.

“His face…” Dean wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “I think… I think you gave him a heart attack, oh my _ God_!” 

Castiel leans against the counter, a half-smirk on his face, and waits for Dean to pull himself together.

When he finally does stand up straight, red-faced and wiping his eyes, Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You done? Because I don’t think Sam’s going to call again; he’ll just leave you behind this time.” That sets Dean off again, and he throws his head back on a bark of laughter. “Come on,” Castiel says with a smile tugging at his lips.

Castiel drags him out to the front of the café where Sam stands off to one side, looking sheepish and apologetic. “Sorry,” he mumbles with a shrug and Dean can’t help himself as another laugh breaks free.

“God, I love you,” Dean says breathlessly, his watery eyes staring into Castiel’s before he kisses him one more time.

“Hmm…” Castiel wants to say the words—wants to give this _ one thing _ to Dean, but they stick in his throat and strangle him. He can’t say it—he _ can’t_—because if he does, he’ll lose Dean, and he _ can’t _lose Dean.

So he keeps it in and kisses him instead, hoping Dean gets it.

The rain pelts the ground hard enough to leave pockmarks in the sand outside Castiel’s bedroom doors. He squints through the dark and the rain, out toward the beach, and finds Dean there, lying spread-eagled in the wet sand.

Castiel sighs and rolls his eyes as he takes his phone, wallet, and keys from his pockets and slips off his socks to step out into the rain. He’s soaked in seconds as he walks the fifty or so yards from the house to Dean, lowering himself to the sand to lie beside him, staring up at the dark clouds as rain pelts his face and runs into his ears.

“What are you doing out here?” Castiel asks, turning his head to look at Dean, who does the same, staring at Castiel with a look he can’t quite read before he looks back at the sky. Dean reaches out a hand between them and takes Castiel’s, twining their fingers together. Sand chafes between their palms but Castiel ignores it in favor of feeling Dean’s skin against his own.

“Drinking,” he slurs, holding up a half-empty bottle of whiskey for Castiel to see. “Want some?”

Castiel reaches for it with his other hand and sits up just enough to take a swig. It burns down his throat, but he tips the bottle back one more time before handing it over to Dean, who does the same.

They lie there for who knows how long, holding hands and sipping whiskey until the sky tilts and twists around them. Castiel feels the alcohol like a hot air balloon, heating his insides and pulling him toward the sky. It’s nice, and he reaches for the bottle again, only to find it empty.

“Damn,” he whispers, tossing it to the side as he squeezes Dean’s fingers. “Now what do we do?” 

Dean chuckles, the sound full of something different than usual—bitterness. “What do we do, huh?” He blinks away the rain. “What are we going to do?” The words are whispered, and Castiel knows they’re not for him, but the defeat in them tugs at his heartstrings and spikes worry in his chest. “What can we do? Nothing. We can’t do anything.”

“What?” Castiel asks, not sure he heard him right. “Can’t do anything?” But Dean just shakes his head and blinks away the rain—Castiel watches it roll from the corner of his eye, down his cheek, and into the sand below. Lost forever.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, turning his head to look at him after a while. He can feel the fear creeping in—the old, ever-present gnawing in his gut that everyone will eventually leave him—and, right now, he’s too drunk to push it back and tell himself he’s being ridiculous.

“Hmm?”

“How will I find you?” 

Dean turns his head to look at Castiel, his eyes a bit glazed, but he’s paying attention. There’s a little crease between his eyebrows that tells Castiel he doesn’t understand.

“Where am I going to find you again?” It’s an honest question, though he knows it’s not exactly what he means to say. _ Where am I going to find _ someone like you _ again? _

Dean answers anyway. “Find me in the light,” he says, simple as that.

“Find you in the…?”

“Light. You know, ’cause I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.” He shrugs, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, and Castiel scoffs, rolling his eyes as he swats at Dean’s side.

“Fuck off,” Castiel says and Dean chuckles as he turns his face back to the weeping sky.

Dean is silent as Castiel watches him, and he can’t for the life of him figure out what Dean’s thinking. He starts to imagine the possibilities—getting lost in his own thoughts—when Dean opens his mouth and _ screams_.

Castiel flinches but Dean doesn’t stop, his eyes closing to the sky as he screams and screams. “_ What _ are you _ doing_?” 

“All I _ can _do.” That’s all he says before screaming again, and Castiel figures he might as well join him.

So, he does. They do—until they’re out of breath and hoarse. They scream and scream and scream; for all that they’ve gained, and for all they have to lose.

When they finally stop and just stare up at the sky, there’s nothing left for them to do. 

Castiel doesn’t notice the tears that fall from Dean’s eyes, mingling with the rain as they hit the sand below.


	12. Play For Me

**Time After: 3 months, 1 week, 5 days**

Castiel moves one of his game pieces five squares ahead, almost to the safe zone on the Sorry board. He grins a little wider when he hears Dean huff, losing by miles as he is. Dean isn’t really paying attention, though, his eyes trained on Castiel, who watches every move with rapt attention.

Castiel doesn’t notice, content only to be winning and to have Dean so near. He comes more often these days, appearing almost as if out of thin air to sit beside him in the garden or across from him at one of the many tables in the whitewashed room of many windows. Dean is his only visitor most days, not that he minds too much. Sometimes Gabriel comes, but Castiel doesn’t really pay that much attention to him. Besides, he mostly talks to the doctor and the ladies and gentlemen in blue, anyway.

Dean talks to him, though. He loves talking to Dean. Somehow, he thinks he might have known him before—before he forgot everything and came _here_. Before everything, he thinks he knew Dean.

“Damn, Cas, you get better and better every time we play.” 

Dean shakes his head as he moves one of his pieces back to the start and Castiel’s grin widens to the point of aching. He plays with the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his fingers as shadows dance at the corners of his eyes. He tries to ignore them, but he’s so tired nowadays. 

He pinches the skin at his wrist hard enough to leave little grooves where his neatly trimmed nails dig in. Always neatly trimmed—short. It helps a little; gives him something else to focus on.

Castiel slides the last piece into the safe zone and leans back in his chair, ignoring the way it squeaks under him as he watches Dean huff while fighting back a smile.

“Alright, out to the garden with you. Come on.” Dean shoves his chair back, the sound of it dragging across the floor echoing in the room, and heads for the wall of windows. Castiel follows happily, loving the fresh air and warm sun on his skin.

He watches Dean as he walks ahead of him, feeling something warm and melting under his skin as Dean’s muscles shift beneath his shirt. His swaggering walk does something funny to Castiel’s stomach and he can’t help but think it’s done that before—in another lifetime, maybe. But then the breeze is on his face and the shadows at the edges of his vision are obliterated by the bright rays of sunshine that pour across his skin. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the blue, blue sky, breathing long and deep before letting it all out in a heavy sigh. 

Even with all the cotton balls in his head—which always seem to be there, weighing him down and fuzzing everything up—he can think more clearly with the fresh air in his lungs, and he takes careful steps to the nearest bench, still all too aware of the weight of the world pressing in on all sides. Dean sits with him a moment later, not bothering with words where they aren’t needed. This, too, feels familiar—silence without the want for more. Silence for the sake of silence, simply because they can.

Eventually, though, Castiel speaks, wanting nothing more than to share his every thought with Dean.

“I think when I get out of here, eventually, I want to open a café. You know, with muffins, and bread, and all kinds of little wraps and sandwiches. What do you think?” He looks over at Dean, watching carefully for any change in his expression. There aren’t any and, eventually, Castiel finds himself counting the freckles on Dean’s nose.

“You always did love to bake; got that from your mom.” Dean glances over—just a quick flick of his eyes—before shooting him a sly wink, his green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. 

Castiel wants to tell Dean he thinks he’s beautiful, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Really?” His eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t remember that. I don’t remember my mom.”

Dean hums as he picks at a thread on his jeans. “From what I gathered, you two were pretty close when you were young.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, looking off into the flowers, instead, and trying his hardest to dig up something—_anything_—about his mother, but the cotton balls won’t budge, and nothing reveals itself to him, so he gives up, too tired to even care.

“…Out here.” The voices come from somewhere off to his right, but he doesn’t turn to look, focusing instead on the parts of Dean he can see out of the corner of his eye where the dark spots don’t blot him out. “Here he is. Castiel?” 

Castiel doesn’t look up, but he blinks to acknowledge them.

“Hey, Cassie. It’s me—it’s… it’s Gabe.” Castiel looks up, then, recognizing the name. He smiles a soft, polite smile, before looking back at the flowers. Dean is still here, sitting beside him. 

“He’s doing a lot better. The doc says he might be able to go home soon. He might come out of whatever funk he’s in and get back to his life. That’d be good for him, you know? Getting back to his old life, that is.” The words drift through Castiel’s ears without really sticking to anything. Dean has started flicking bits of dirt off his jeans, doing more to spread it around than actually get rid of it. Castiel wants to comment but he leaves it alone as the ladies and gentlemen in blue talk to Gabriel.

“…So many games, it’s incredible, really. We kept thinking, _ isn’t he tired of Twister, yet? _But he just kept on playing for hours and hours and hours…”

Dean gives up on the dirt and shifts his focus to a hangnail, biting at it before pulling his hand back to see if he got it, then bringing his finger back to his mouth to try again. Dean doesn’t say anything to the others, choosing to ignore them as they talk excitedly about how _ great _he’s doing. Gabriel smiles so wide it must hurt.

Castiel figures he hasn’t seen the shadow creeping over his shoulder yet.

**Time Left: 3 months, 1 week, 2 days**

The next morning when Castiel rolls over in bed, Dean’s still asleep, snoring softly with his face tucked into the pillow and one hand tucked under his cheek. Sun shines through the open curtains, lighting his skin and highlighting his freckles in the golden glow. 

_God, he’s so beautiful_, Castiel thinks as he brushes his fingers through Dean’s hair. He doesn’t stir, so Castiel pushes himself out of bed and pads through to the bathroom for a shower. He lets the room fill with steam before he steps through the sliding glass door, rolling his aching shoulders as the hot water beats down on him for a minute, loosening the tight muscles and washing away the leftover sand from the night before. He’ll need to wash his sheets for sure, but that can wait until later—after Dean leaves for work, that is. He lathers up and rinses off, taking extra time to wash the sand from his hair before stepping out and toweling off. 

With the towel wrapped around his waist, he steps back into the bedroom, only to see that Dean hasn’t moved. Huh, he thought he’d at least be awake by now. Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and puts his face down into Dean’s, smiling softly as he blows on his nose. 

Dean doesn’t even twitch.

“Dean?” Castiel says as a frown settles on his face. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair, feeling the tangles pull a little and the grit of sand at the roots, but still, Dean doesn’t move. He places one hand on Dean’s shoulder and shakes him, jarring him from sleep, but his eyes barely open as he looks up at Castiel, confused and disoriented.

“What…?” He looks around, his voice hoarse and gravelly. “I don’t—” He’s cut off by a coughing fit that shakes his bones, and Castiel pats his back softly. When the coughing finally stops, Dean rolls further onto his stomach, sniffling loudly. “Cas, I don’t feel good,” he whispers, and now that Dean’s awake, Castiel notices his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes. He _ looks _sick.

“What can I do?” Castiel asks, still rubbing soothing circles on Dean’s naked back. His skin is hot to the touch and Castiel’s almost positive it’s not from the glaring sun. He gets up, pulling the blinds closed and plunging the room into darkness.

“Call the boss; I don’t think I can work today,” Dean whispers, looking apologetic as he stares up at Castiel.

“Noted.” Castiel changes into a pair of boxers and tosses his wet towel in the hamper. “I’ll see if Hannah can fill in for a few hours.” Dean only nods, closing his eyes as Castiel runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. “How do you feel?”

“Like crap,” Dean deadpans, and Castiel chuckles softly.

“No, what are your symptoms?”

“Cough—” He’s cut off by said cough, his whole body jerking with it, and he groans when he finally settles down. “I’m achy and kinda cold…”

“So a fever, then.” It’s not a question, but Dean nods anyway.

“Feel sorta like throwing up and my throat hurts like a bitch.”

“That’s probably all the yelling you did last night.” Castiel raises an accusatory eyebrow at him and he at least has the decency to look sheepish, if not remorseful. Castiel smiles fondly back, brushing the hair from Dean’s tired eyes. “You should have a shower—wash off some of this sand.” Castiel pulls his hand away, showing Dean the tiny grains dusting his fingers.

Dean groans as he tries to sit up and Castiel offers to help him but is shooed away. After a few more coughing fits and lot more cursing, Dean gets to the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress in tight fists as he pushes himself up. When he gets to his feet, he sways, clutching his mouth with one hand as his whole body jerks. “Fuck,” he breathes, stumbling as fast as he can to the bathroom.

Castiel follows close behind and kneels beside Dean as he vomits into the toilet, his whole body convulsing with the force. Castiel mumbles soothing words that he’s not sure do anything except make himself feel better and rubs a hand up and down Dean’s back.

His chest aches for Dean and he wishes he could do something to make him feel better, but he knows he can’t. All he can do is be here for him in any way Dean will let him and hopefully in a few days, he’ll feel as good as new.

When there’s nothing left for him to throw up, Castiel helps Dean sit with his back against the cool tile. Dean shivers wildly and his lips are so pale they would blend into his skin if his cheeks weren’t so flushed with color. He closes his eyes, his head lolling to the side as he groans softly. “Fuck,” he whispers again, his arms hanging limp at his sides. 

Castiel crouches in front of him, running a cool washcloth over Dean’s chin, up the side of his face, before resting it on his forehead. “Come on. I’ll help you shower.” Dean doesn’t argue this time as Castiel strips out of his boxers before getting Dean’s arm over his shoulder and lifting him up.

They stumble into the shower, where Castiel lowers Dean to the floor and turns on the water before sliding in behind him, ignoring Dean’s startled yelp as the cold water sluices over his skin. Castiel sits with his back to the wall and Dean’s to his chest as Dean’s head rolls back onto Castiel’s shoulder, his lips tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck as he breathes softly, trembling with a fever.

The water isn’t set to hot, but it’s still warm and Castiel makes quick work of scrubbing the dirt and sand from Dean’s body before making him hold his head up so he can shampoo his hair. He makes sure to rinse it well, watching as the sand runs down the drain as Dean’s hair matts to his forehead and water sluices down his chest.

Castiel gets him out of the shower, dried off, and onto the couch with some difficulty. Castiel is by no means a small man, but Dean is _ heavy _and can hardly support his own weight as his knees lock and buckle with every step. He leaves him naked and only drapes him in a light sheet, ignoring Dean’s complaints about being cold.

“Do you think you could handle some soup?” Castiel calls from the kitchen, already pulling out a pot and digging through the pantry for a can of chicken noodle.

“My throat hurts,” Dean whines and, to his credit, he really _ does _sound awful. Castiel ignores him and makes the soup anyway. That wasn’t an explicit refusal of food and Dean will eat some of it, anyway. He putters around the kitchen for a bit, taking out some cereal for himself and leaning against the counter to eat it while waiting for Dean’s soup to heat, stirring it occasionally so it doesn’t burn.

When the soup is hot enough, Castiel pours it into a bowl and drops a spoon in before heading for the living room with the bowl in hand. He sets it on the table in front of Dean. 

Dean lifts his head, staring into the bowl before his eyes flick up to Castiel’s. “There’s no crackers in it,” he whines, turning his nose up at the cracker-less soup.

“You’re sick—you don’t get crackers,” Castiel says, crossing his arms as he sets his jaw.

“I don’t want it,” Dean almost whispers, resting his head back down on the pillow and closing his eyes. 

Castiel huffs and gets down in Dean’s face. “Dean, you need to eat something; you’ll feel better if you do.” 

“No, I won’t,” he murmurs, and Castiel knows he’s sick and just being an asshole because he feels shitty, so he takes a deep breath and tries to hold his tongue.

“Try it,” he says, and his voice is harsher than it’s meant to be, but it gets the desired effect as Dean’s eyes pop open and he searches Castiel’s face before finally giving in.

“Fine,” he snaps and lifts his head as Castiel brings a spoonful to his mouth. He coughs and chokes as he swallows, getting more on the sheet than he does in his stomach, but the second spoonful goes down easier, and by the third, Dean’s opening his mouth for more after every swallow. “Sammy’d never make me soup without crackers,” Dean pouts, before opening his mouth for another bite.

“Yeah, well we both know that’s a lie,” Castiel says, knowing he’s right.

Dean huffs but doesn’t argue.

When the bowl is two-thirds empty, Dean pushes it away, shaking his head when Castiel holds up the spoon, so he sets it aside as Dean rests his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes, looking exhausted, but his color is a little better. Castiel pushes one hand into Dean’s damp hair and kisses his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin under his lips. “I need to make a few calls, but if you need something, ask.” 

Dean nods almost imperceptibly but it’s enough for Castiel as he pushes back to his feet and goes in search of his phone.

After Hannah agrees to go in for the day, Castiel breathes a sigh of relief—he’d been worried he’d have to go in and leave Dean alone—and sits on his bed for a moment, feeling the aches in his own body as he rolls his shoulders. 

He finds the energy to stand and looks at his sandy bed with tired eyes but pulls the sheets off anyway. He was too drunk last night to care about the dirt, but he can’t sleep in it sober—there’s no way—so he bundles the sheets and tosses them in the washing machine along with the rest of his dirty laundry. 

He has so much housework to do today, and he needs to go grocery shopping—that’ll have to wait until Dean’s better, though—so he starts on the dusting, finding every speck and every cobweb in all the corners of his house. 

It distracts him from all the worries churning his stomach—all the irrational fears in his head—and he’s glad for it. There are just so_ many _ things to worry about—the café, Gabriel, Dean and Sam… himself. Sometimes he feels himself slipping—falling back into his old coping mechanisms—and he can’t go there again. He can’t do that to Gabriel or to himself or to _ Dean _ who wouldn’t have a clue why he’s drunk at nine in the morning—wouldn’t know what it means when he says he’s going swimming—he wouldn’t know what to do and Castiel _ can’t _do that to him.

So, he cleans.

He scrubs the floors and wipes the walls until all the guilt and pain and _ fear _ leftover from Dean’s little meltdown on the beach the night before is washed from his mind—until he feels _ sane _again. He’s just finished polishing the last of his mother’s good crystal—which hasn’t been used since she passed—when he hears a soft moan from the living room.

He almost drops the glass in his hurry to get in there but manages to set it on the island before it slips from his hands.

Dean isn’t awake, though—he’s talking in his sleep. Mumbling incoherently about nothing as his face pinches up. His eyebrows furrow and he _ snarls _before a garbled shout bursts from him. Castiel watches for a moment, knowing there’s nothing he can do, as an ache settles in his chest. Dean twists and turns on the couch, the sheet tangling in his legs as he does, and as Castiel bends over to untangle him, Dean’s words become clear.

“What do you mean… nothing?” 

Castiel freezes, his hands mid-tug, and looks up at Dean’s crumpled face.

“_Nothing_? Can’t do _a-anything_?” Castiel’s heart freezes in his chest and he lets go of the sheet as a strangled sound escapes Dean’s lips. He kneels in front of him, shaking his shoulder as fear spikes inside him.

“Dean? Dean, baby, wake up.” He shakes him harder and Dean’s eyes snap open. He groans softly as his shoulders jerk. 

Castiel doesn’t have time to move out of the way before Dean’s throwing up all over him.

**Time Left: 2 months, 3 weeks, 5 days**

Castiel thought Dean would be better by now, but he’s not—he’s only gotten worse.

It’s been almost a week and a half and Dean can hardly open his eyes, but he refuses to go to the hospital—refuses any help at all, actually—and Castiel is terrified. He hasn’t been to the café in four days since Sam and Jess had to fly back to California, and he’s had to call in Jo for some extra help, but there’s only so much she can do before he needs to get back there. He can’t leave Dean, though—not like this—so he stays and he does what he can and he cleans.

He cleans and cleans and cleans until his hands crack and the place smells of so much cleaner that he has to leave the windows open to let out the fumes or risk killing them both. 

Dean’s fever has reached dangerous levels in the last hour, but still, he refuses to go to the hospital. He’s sleeping now, covered by only the sheet, as Castiel paces in the dark, clutching his phone in his hands as he debates whether or not to call for an ambulance.

Dean would be so mad, but better mad and alive than dead, right? Castiel closes his eyes as thunder booms outside—lightning flashes across the sky, lighting up Castiel’s living room and illuminating Dean’s face. The dark circles under his eyes are bruise-like and his lips are so dry and chapped that they bleed—Dean stopped sweating not too long ago.

As he watches him, he thinks for the first time, that he could lose him—that Dean won’t get better and he’ll _ lose _him. Fear shoots so hot and fast through Castiel that he’s dialing before he knows what he’s doing. 

He knows Dean will be mad, but he just doesn’t care right now. He cares about keeping him alive—keeping him _ here_.

Dean doesn’t even stir as the paramedics move him onto a stretcher—doesn’t make a sound as he’s loaded into the ambulance—and Castiel can’t tear his eyes away as they strap him in, snapping an oxygen mask on him and taking his vitals as they speed through the streets of Sandover.

When they get to the hospital, Castiel is sent to the waiting room and isn’t told anything for hours. He paces, his heart in his throat, as he calculates the distance to the nearest liquor store—to the nearest beach—but, before he can tear out of there, a doctor comes through the emergency room door—one he doesn’t know—and leads him to Dean’s room.

He’s asleep, but Dr. Duma informs him that Dean has a severe case of strep throat and his fever was dangerously close to causing organ damage, had Castiel not called the ambulance when he did, but he’ll be okay now.

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief as the weight on his chest lifts with the knowledge that, for once, he made the right choice.

**Time Left: 2 months, 3 weeks, 4 days**

It’s another eighteen hours before Dean wakes up, groggy and disoriented. He tries to bring his hand up to his face but winces when the IV tugs on his arm. He looks down at it, confused, before turning his glare on Castiel.

“Don’t you fucking _ dare_,” Castiel snaps, his voice a rough, strangled whisper as he looks at Dean, tears filling his eyes as he clenches his jaw.

Dean stares at him for a moment, searching his face, before his anger melts away, replaced by exhaustion. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, reaching for Castiel’s hand, who snatches it up and holds it tight in both of his own.

“You told me not to call, but they said if I hadn’t, you would’ve gone into _organ failure_. You would’ve _died_, Dean, and I don’t know—I don’t… I can’t—” He looks around the room, searching for something he knows he won’t find as the tears slip free and run down his cheeks. “You fucking bastard,” he whispers instead, even as relief washes over him. He presses his trembling lips to Dean’s fingers, feeling the way they shift under his touch.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again, opening his hand to hold Castiel’s face in his palm, his thumb stroking softly over Castiel’s wet cheek, wiping the tears away. “I’m so, _ so _sorry.” The words seem to be the only thing he can say, and they fall from his lips in an endless stream.

_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _

A few hours later, when the doctors have been and gone a few times, Castiel’s stomach starts to growl. He ignores it, though, and watches Dean intently as he grumbles and fumbles his way through a bowl of soup one-handed, refusing to let go of Castiel’s hand to make things easier on himself.

“I could just feed you, you know?” Castiel says for the third time, resting his chin on his free hand, his elbow on the stiff mattress as he watches soup dribble down Dean’s chin.

Dean just glares, but it loses some of its vehemence as a noodle slide over Dean’s lip. Castiel grins.

There’s a knock on the door and they both look up to see Dr. Duma standing there, a tablet in hand. “I’ve got some updates,” she says, holding up the tablet as she takes a step inside.

“Cas, can you go get yourself some food already? I won’t be able to hear over your fucking stomach.” Dean squeezes his hand before letting it go, ignoring the scowl Castiel shoots his way as he stands, digging through his pockets for spare change.

“Fine, but you can forget about sharing my pie with that attitude,” Castiel says as he bends to kiss Dean’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his hand on his neck as Dean grazes his fingers over his skin.

“You wouldn’t be so cruel to a sick man,” Dean says and Castiel just rolls his eyes—it’s true, of course—he’ll probably end up giving Dean the whole slice and only take a bite for himself.

Castiel wanders the halls for a bit, stopping outside the nursery to smile at the two babies inside before making his way around the hospital to the cafeteria. He takes his time perusing his options after snatching up the last slice of pecan pie, ignoring the glare he’s shot from the older lady only feet behind him who’d been eyeing the slice, too.

There’s not much on offer—a soggy tuna sandwich on rye, the same watered-down barley, noodle soup as Dean’s, and plain pasta with heart-healthy noodles. Castiel goes with the tuna and a coffee, which was probably made when the cafeteria opened this morning, by the taste of it.

He decides to meander back to Dean’s room, slowly eating his sandwich as he walks, trying to push down the sense of impending doom that washes over him. _Dean is fine_, he tells himself. _I’m fine, Dean’s fine, we’re all _fine. He repeats the mantra over and over in his mind until he thinks he might actually start to believe it.

He doesn’t bother knocking when he reaches Dean’s room, pushing through with his shoulder, instead, when he doesn’t hear voices from the other side. Castiel smiles at Dean, holding up the pie, but it falls when he sees the puffy redness around his eyes—the way he lays his head back on the pillow, tired and defeated.

“I got pie,” Castiel says with a small lift of his shoulders, trying for another smile that he knows falls short of sincere.

“Lie with me?” Dean asks, his eyes almost pleading as he struggles to shift over on the bed to make room for Castiel to join him.

He does without hesitation, setting the food down on the rolling table before climbing into the vacated spot beside Dean. The bed’s too small for both of them, but they make it work, cuddling close together with Dean’s head nestled on Castiel’s chest and Castiel’s arm slung over Dean’s shoulders, his fingers brushing small circles over Dean’s arm.

“What’d they say?” Castiel asks, dreading and needing to know all at the same time as he buries his nose in Dean’s hair.

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” 

He doesn’t elaborate and Castiel doesn’t ask. They’re silent for a long time until, eventually, the even rise and fall of Dean’s chest let Castiel know he’s asleep. 

Good—he needs it. 

**Time Left: 2 months**

“Baby, you gotta eat _ something_,” Castiel pleads, watching as Dean buries his head in his arms as they sit at the island in Castiel’s kitchen, his food pushed away after only a couple of bites.

“I’m not hungry,” Dean mumbles into the countertop, his hands gripping the short strands of hair at the top of his head before rubbing down his thinning face. “I don’t feel good.”

It’s been like this for three weeks. It was barely noticeable at first—not taking a second helping… leaving some food on his plate… refusing dessert—but gradually his meals have gotten smaller and smaller until he’s barely eating at all, and to say Castiel is worried would be an understatement.

“Do you want soup instead?” he offers, taking the plate of spaghetti and meatballs out from in front of him. 

Dean hesitates for a moment before nodding, and Castiel’s shoulders sag in relief as he digs through the pantry for some chicken noodle soup—a regular item on his grocery list for that past few weeks since it’s all Dean will eat nowadays. He gets the soup started before rounding the island, taking up the space behind Dean and rubbing firm circles into his back.

Dean flinches and pulls away as Castiel freezes. What the hell?

“What—”

“Not so hard—I just… I’m sore.” 

Castiel doesn’t ask as he rubs his hands—flat palmed—in circles over Dean’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine beneath his fingertips and the shift of muscle as he breathes.

Every few minutes, he stirs the soup before wandering back behind Dean to rub his back. When the soup is done, he serves it to Dean in a mug, so he can sip at it, and Dean gives him a grateful smile as he blows away the steam.

“You know, in all my years of eating in fancy restaurants with world-class chefs, I’ve never had better soup than this,” Dean says, his eyes flicking up to Castiel where he stands by the sink, washing dishes.

Castiel rolls his eyes, a small grin turning up his lips as he flicks a bubble at Dean. “Bullshit. It’s just Campbell’s,” he shrugs, setting the washed and rinsed pot in the dish rack before picking up the spaghetti pot.

“No word of a lie.” Dean winks, taking a sip and wincing as it burns his tongue. “Mm-mmm—the best ever.” 

Castiel can tell he’s trying to make him feel better, and, even if it’s a shitty attempt, Castiel smiles, if only to see the light enter Dean’s eyes as his grin lifts a notch. “You’re ridiculous, you know?”

“Yeah, but you love me.” 

Castiel nods, but he doesn’t say the words.

**Time Left: 1 month, 3 weeks**

“Come _on_! You’re not really going to make me endure the Sasquatch _alone_, are you?” Dean whines, tugging on Castiel’s apron as he tries to ignore him, fixing Mrs. Hester’s tea for the third time. He shoots a glare at Dean but doesn’t respond otherwise.

“There you go, Mrs. Hester; I hope that will be to your liking.” He knows it won’t be—she has to get him to fix it at _ least _seven times before it’s deemed suitable for drinking by her standards—but he still plasters on a smile as he hands the cup back over the counter before turning to the next customer.

“We haven’t seen him in _ months_,” Dean says, his arms flapping at his sides as he follows Castiel around. He’s not even on shift—Castiel should just kick him out. “Please, Cas?” 

He knows if he looks up at him, he’ll be met with the patent-pending Dean Winchester pout, so he doesn’t look up—there’s not much Dean can’t get with that pout, and he knows it.

“Go home, Dean,” Castiel says as he mixes an iced coffee and adds three sugars and a caramel shot. “You know how I feel about the boats, and the mainland in general—I’m not going.”

“It’s the _ferry_. Even if it sank, it’d touch the seafloor and we’d still be above water on the top deck.” Dean’s right at his back, almost pressed against him as Hannah squeezes by, and Castiel clenches his teeth.

“Not how it works,” is all he says, spinning around and bumping into him when Dean tries to take a step closer. The iced coffee in his hands slips, crashing to the floor with a crack, and then Castiel is glaring daggers at Dean, coffee splattered all over his shoes and running over the tiles.

Dean’s eyes are wide, his lips sealed tight, as he watches Castiel fume. “Get… the fuck… _out_,” he growls, his tone dangerously low. 

Dean backs away quickly, his hands held up in surrender as he bumps a hip into the counter on his way around. He winces but keeps going, all the way to the door like that as Castiel continues his glare until he’s out of sight.

He sighs as he looks down at the floor and the coffee on his shoes, his shoulders sagging as he just stares and stares. He knows he’s going, despite his defiance—he loves Dean too much to let him go it alone.

So, after the café is shut down and locked up for the night, instead of heading home to his nice, warm bed to watch the sunset through the open curtains, he and Dean climb into the Impala and head back to Castiel’s house to pack an overnight bag.

Castiel stands in the middle of his room, staring longingly at his nice, soft bed as Dean digs around in drawers, tossing t-shirts and underwear into their duffle bag. Castiel heaves a heavy sigh—he knows he’s being dramatic and he doesn’t really care—but Dean ignores him.

“Do you want pajama pants?” Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder while holding up the pants.

“What I _ want _is to make a cup of tea and curl up in bed with my boyfriend while we watch the sunset,” Castiel gripes, pouting like a child when Dean rolls his eyes.

“Alright, no pajama pants.” He drops them back in the drawer—a half-folded mess that Castiel will have to fix later—and starts looking for shorts.

Castiel changes tactics, walking up behind Dean and wrapping his arms around his waist. He rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder and lowers his voice to a husky whisper. “Know what else we can do with no pants?”

Dean huffs, his annoyance clear in the way he doesn’t react to Castiel’s nearness. “No, Castiel, I don’t know.” He closes the drawer with a little too much force and tosses the shorts in the general direction of their overnight bag. “And I’m not going to find out, either, because we are _ leaving_.” Dean turns in his arms, his jaw set, but he must see something in Castiel’s face because he cuts off the words he was about to say as his eyes soften.

They look at each other for a long moment before Dean lifts his hands and cups Castiel’s cheeks. Dean’s smile is gentle as his thumbs stroke Castiel’s cheekbones, saying more with his actions than any words ever could, and Castiel feels himself choking up. The knot in his chest squeezes tighter when Dean pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips before he speaks.

“I know you’re scared, baby, but…” He trails off, pulling Castiel into a hug before continuing. “But I’ll be there. You’ll be alright.”

Castiel takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries to get his emotions in check, but leaving his island just isn’t something he does—not if he can help it, anyway—and nothing is going to make him feel better about it.

“Why couldn’t he have just moved onto the island?” Castiel’s voice is muffled by Dean’s shirt, but he hears anyway and a laugh rumbles in Dean’s chest before he pulls away.

“Island prices, baby. They’re insane.” Dean presses one more kiss to his lips before pulling away to finish packing their bag. “Besides, why would Sam buy a place on the island when he's still going back to California half the time anyway?” 

Castiel doesn’t bother responding as he slips into his sandals and waits for Dean by the door. Five minutes later, they set off for the docking station a couple of miles from the end of the island.

The ferry’s only a small one, comparatively, but Castiel knows it’s still the biggest boat Dean has ever seen, and he watches Dean stare up at it, head craned back, in awe of its magnitude as they walk around the lower deck. Castiel smiles fondly at him as he guides Dean through the small crowds of tourists that snap pictures and point out at the whitecaps, yelling, _ look, a whale! _as Castiel shakes his head.

It’s about an hour and a half to the mainland by ferry but it feels like years as he and Dean sit by the bow of the boat, counting down the minutes until they dock. Rationally, he knows they’re as safe here as they are on the island, but it’s not the rational part of Castiel’s mind that has his heart pounding against his rib cage and his throat closing up with panic. 

He can almost feel the island like a tether, stretching tight the farther away they get, and anxiety swells inside him as he glances back at it over his shoulder, its shape barely visible at this distance.

He turns back around and swallows hard, but it does nothing to dislodge the lump in his throat. Dean’s shaky fingers wrap around his and give them a squeeze as he smiles over at him, though he looks just as anxious. And tired—he looks really, _ really _tired.

Dean lays his head down on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel rests his own on Dean’s as they watch the mainland grow steadily closer—steadily more menacing in Castiel’s mind—until the ferry is pulling up to the dock with a blare of its horn and Castiel’s heart is sitting squarely in his throat.

They make their way back to Impala and wait with anxious anticipation for the cars ahead of them to pull onto the road. Dean practically floors it off the boat and they both breathe a sigh of relief when the Impala’s tires find solid ground, though the calm is only temporary for Castiel as they drive deeper into the coastal city. His stomach tightens as the buildings rise high above their heads and he has to close his eyes and block it out as he tries to get used to the idea of being off his island, even for a day.

_ You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. _

He repeats this over and over in his head, unknowingly mouthing the words all the way to Sam’s house. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, nudging Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel’s eyes snap open and the words, _you’re okay_, die on his lips. Dean’s pretty green eyes stare back at him, wide with worry, as he clutches one of Castiel’s hands in his own. 

It’s only then that he realizes he’s shaking.

“It’s okay, baby. I got you.” 

Castiel knows it’s meant to be reassuring—and it is, to an extent—but his jaw is still clenched with tension and the tether of the island tugs insistently the longer he sits in the car. But he offers Dean a shaky smile and climbs out, his knees knocking with every step they take to the front porch.

_God, this is ridiculous_, Castiel thinks. He’s a grown-ass man, for fuck’s sake! He should be able to leave home for twenty-four hours without having a panic attack every five minutes. And yet, here he is, trying—and mostly failing—to take deep, calming breaths, holding Dean’s hand in a death grip as they wait for Sam to answer the door.

The scent of freshly baked apple pie wafts through the door when Sam opens it and something about the warm cinnamon and apple scent calms Castiel—makes him feel a little more at home. His shoulders lose a little of their tension, falling from where they were up by his ears to a normal level, and Dean smiles over at him when he feels it, too.

Dinner is wonderful, and the apple pie is fantastic—though not as good as Castiel’s, if he does say so himself. Sam, he learns, can’t cook to save his life, but Jessica dug out his mother’s old cookbooks and made the recipes from the pages marked with little notes, like _ Dean's Top Request _ and _ Sam's Favorite_.

Castiel watches Dean closely, and he thinks that maybe Dean’s smile is a little more tired than normal—a little more forced—but every time he feels sure about this, Dean turns his eyes on him and his smile is as bright as it’s ever been.

When dinner is finished and the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher, they move to the tiny living room, and Castiel can’t help but notice how closed off from the outside he feels. The windowless walls are painted a deep maroon, and the furniture, though comfortable, is bulky and old. It feels nothing like the airiness of Castiel’s own home, with its abundance of windows and wide, open spaces, and even as he compliments the decor, it’s nothing of his own tastes.

“How’s the job going, Dean?” Sam asks as he sits in the large, chocolate-colored armchair with Jess on his lap.

Castiel and Dean sit on the mismatched loveseat across from them. Dean rests his hand on Castiel’s thigh, rubbing small circles with his fingers as Castiel looks over at him. He catches the slight shift in his smile and rolls his eyes. “Oh, you know. The job’s fine, and I like my coworkers.” Dean shrugs and Castiel can almost hear his next words before they leave his mouth. “Boss is still kind of an ass, though.” There it is.

Sam chuckles as a surprised laugh bursts from Jess. “Careful, I might just fire you,” Castiel says, giving Dean side-eye as he fights back a fond smile.

“For what? Telling it like it is?” He raises an eyebrow at Castiel, a soft smirk turning up his tired face.

“For eating the merchandise when you think I’m not looking.” Castiel raises his own eyebrow and matches Dean’s smirk.

Dean grumbles, shifting in his seat as he turns away from Castiel. “Not fair—I haven’t done that in months.” 

Castiel’s stomach drops at the reminder, and he looks away. He knows Dean’s not feeling well, and he knows it probably has something to do with his shaky hands, but Dean hasn’t told him anything’s seriously wrong, so he doesn’t ask, and he tries not to worry, though the latter is getting harder and harder to do with every passing day.

Castiel shifts on the leather cushion, trying to sink further into the corner but not really getting anywhere. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side, and Castiel sighs as he relaxes into him, loving the warmth and comfort Dean brings.

“Oh!” Jess says, jumping up from Sam’s lap. “Dean, can you play for us?” She hurries over to the covered piano and opens it before looking at Dean with pleading eyes. “Sam and I have both been _ dying _to hear you play.” She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Castiel can feel Dean’s hesitation—his uncertainty about his skill and ability with his unsteady fingers—but Castiel knows how good Dean is—_still_.

“Play for me?” Castiel whispers in Dean’s ear and Dean stares at him, showing Castiel all his uncertainty and all his fear, but Castiel can only offer him his comfort—his promise that it doesn’t really matter how well he can play, only that he does.

With a heavy sigh and a little more effort than should be necessary, Dean pushes to his feet and wanders over to the piano. His fingers graze the polished wood as he takes a seat on the cushioned bench, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers as they all wait in anticipation.

“Cas,” Dean whispers without turning around, and Castiel goes to him, taking up the extra space on the bench beside Dean when he scoots over. “I might not be—”

“That’s alright.” He rubs a hand up and down Dean’s leg, offering his reassurance in the only way he can. 

Dean lets out a small breath and offers Castiel a shaky smile as he rests his fingers on the keys—there’s a slight tremble there, and it’s worse than it was the first time.

When he starts to play, Castiel can’t help but notice the difference, and it takes him a moment to recognize the song Dean’s playing. Instead of the flowing notes and haunting tune, the progression to the crescendos are stilted—the transition from note to note, fumbling and rushed—but it’s _ their _song and Castiel smiles as emotion so strong—so overwhelming—flows through him, choking him up as he leans into Dean's side.

Dean doesn’t sing this time, but Castiel knows the words of “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” by heart now, having listened to it a million times since Dean played it for him in the church so many weeks ago. Castiel notices the tension that slowly builds in Dean, though. How his face pinches up with concentration and his fingers on the keys become more forceful. He plays the entire song, and when it’s finished, he drops his hands to his lap and stares down at the keys.

No one speaks for a moment, until, finally, Sam breaks the silence. “Wow, Dean, that was—”

“Terrible,” Dean interrupts, his face crumpling before Castiel’s eyes. “It was terrible.” He stares down at his hands like he hates them, and Castiel’s heart sinks.

“I was going to say beautiful, actually,” Sam murmurs as he cocks his head to the side.

“You’ve never really heard me play, then,” Dean says, more to himself than to anyone else. Dean knows his own talent and he knows that wasn’t it—Castiel knows it, too. But it doesn’t matter to him, where it means everything to Dean.

“Thank you,” Castiel whispers, bringing Dean’s face around with a finger on his chin. He can see the devastation brimming in Dean’s eyes—the loss of everything he once was—but Castiel’s smile is genuine as he cups Dean’s cheek in his palm. “Thank you,” he repeats as he leans in, kissing Dean softly as he tries to tell him everything he can’t say with words.

_ Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being you. Thank you for everything. Just… thank you. _

Dean kisses him back softly—tentatively—before pulling away, his eyes still filled with sorrow as he stands, and Castiel’s hand falls away. “I’m—” He trips over the bench as he steps back—stumbles—before catching himself on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m going to bed.” He looks around the room at Sam and Jess before his sad eyes settle on Castiel’s. His heart sinks when Dean tries to force a smile. “Goodnight.”

Before anyone can say any more, Dean is gone, hurrying out of the room and down the hall, and they hear the spare bedroom door close only moments later.

Castiel reclaims the corner of the loveseat as Jess and Sam lean back in the recliner. “What’s up with him?” Jess asks, still looking down the hall after Dean. “I thought he played great.”

Sam doesn’t say anything as they all look down the hall at the closed bedroom door. Sam’s never really heard Dean play, either. Neither has Castiel, really—Dean had already started noticing changes in his playing, so none of them have _ actually _ witnessed his full talent _ in person_.

“Do you have a computer?” Castiel asks, glancing up at Sam whose head snaps around. Castiel doesn’t explain. He’s heard of the YouTube site, but the internet on the island is much too slow for it, so he’s never actually used it himself, but he bets Sam has, and he’s sure Dean’s on there somewhere.

“Uh, yeah. Let me get it.” Sam disappears for a moment into his office off the living room, before reappearing with a laptop in hand. They all huddle onto the loveseat—Sam and Castiel squished shoulder to shoulder while Jess sits on the armrest on Castiel’s other side—and he pulls up the site before typing in Dean’s name.

There are thousands of hits—millions, even—ranging from newscasts about his disappearance, to live concerts, to just him and his piano. Castiel clicks on one of these and turns the volume up just a little as the music starts to play. It’s a slow song, filled with rising tempos and soft melodies—Dean’s sitting on the bench, his back straight and his fingers flying across the keys. He has that little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating.

Then he starts to sing.

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, just like it did the first time, and he leans closer to the screen, watching every shift of Dean’s expression as he plays on and on and on, never missing a beat or fumbling a note—always perfectly paced. 

He looks happy, Castiel realizes—almost as happy as he looks with Castiel—and something in his heart gives a sharp tug. This was Dean’s peace—through the chaos of his life, _ this _is what kept him grounded—and he’s losing it. Castiel can only imagine the pain Dean must feel—a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest; a hole being carved from his very tissue.

The song ends. Sam clears his throat and Jess wipes her eyes—Castiel can only stare. He’s so angry he could hit something. He shakes with it because Dean used to do _this_, and the world—_God himself_—is taking this from him and there’s nothing either of them can do. The ache in Castiel’s chest grows into a pulsing, clawing thing. Until he can’t breathe around it—_see _through it—until the only thing he can think of to ease it is down the hall in more pain than he is.

Castiel stands, passing Sam’s laptop over and murmuring a hasty _ goodnight _before he, too, disappears down the hall.

The bedroom is dark when he opens the door, and he can hear the soft sounds of Dean’s sleeping breaths. Moonlight filters in through the open curtains, illuminating Dean’s face. For the first time in months, Castiel looks at him—_really _looks at him—and what he sees terrifies him. It chills him to the bone.

Something’s wrong. Dean’s lost so much weight—his cheeks are hollow and his eyes sunken. Castiel can count his ribs through the skin and see every ridge in his spine—and he’s paler than ever, even in the moonlight. His freckles are practically non-existent, having faded away, and he looks so, _ so _tired. He doesn’t move in his sleep—not even a twitch—and if Castiel couldn’t hear his shallow, whistling breaths, he’d think Dean wasn’t breathing at all.


	13. Go Fish

**Time After: 4 months, 2 days**

_ The last time Gabriel visited, Castiel actually smiled at him. Smiled like he _ recognized _ him. He almost couldn’t believe it. There was something in the tilt of his head that was just so _ Cas _ that hope started to lighten the weight of the world on his shoulders. _

_ He walks through the parking lot towards the facility with a grin on his face and a skip in his step, finally feeling the sun shine down on him for the first time in what feels like _ years. Maybe Cassie will be home soon. Maybe it’ll all be just fine.

“Do you think I could make pie?” Castiel asks Dean as he hands over a two of hearts. 

“Man, I hope so. Love me some pie. Got any sevens?” Dean says, licking his lips at the thought. His hair is as shaggy as ever; a wild mess on the top of his head. Castiel loves it.

“Go fish. Any preferences?” Castiel looks at his spread of cards. He’s losing—badly. “Got any nines?”

“Go fish. Maybe cherry? Or apple—oh, man, a slice of steaming apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream sounds like heaven right about now.” He wiggles in his seat while perusing his cards. “Fours?”

Castiel is handing over a four of spades when a shadow falls over his table and voices reach his ears. “…He playing?” It sounds like Gabriel but Castiel doesn’t look up to check. He can see the swirls of darkness in the corners of his vision and he doesn’t much care to look at them head-on. Dean is a much nicer view.

“Not sure? Our bet was on some form of solitaire, but he keeps saying _go fish_, so…”

“What about cookies? Do you like cookies?” he asks Dean, ignoring the group standing over him. Dean lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at Castiel before letting his eyes fall back to his cards.

“I wouldn’t turn them down if they were offered. Jacks?” Dean flicks the corner of one of his cards as Castiel hands over a Jack.

“Who’s he talking to?”

“I think you’d like my cookies,” Castiel mumbles as a yawn rolls through him, shaking his bones as he covers his mouth. 

“Maybe. You’ll just have to make me lots of them.”

“You want me to make you lots of cookies when you aren't even sure you'll like them? That makes no sense, Dean.” Castiel raises an eyebrow, incredulous.

“Did he just say _ Dean_?”

“Yeah, sounds like.” 

The voices above him are getting louder—harder to ignore—but Castiel does his best.

“How long has he been doing that? Talking to _ Dean_?” That’s Gabriel’s voice, shaking with anger. With dread.

“A few weeks, maybe? A month? Is that a bad thing?”

“_Yes_! Yes, that’s a _very _bad thing!” Castiel flinches at the bite in Gabriel’s tone but doesn’t dare to look up. “_Dean _is the reason he’s in here! Where the hell is Jess?” 

“She’s on leave.”

Before Castiel knows what’s happening, Dean is gone, and he’s being hauled from his chair. “Come on, Cassie. It’s time to see the doctor.”

He doesn’t even have time to react before he’s pulled away, cards still clutched in one hand—the words _ go fish _on the tip of his tongue.

**Time Left: 1 month, 1 week**

Castiel starts noticing things more.

The way Dean winces when he gets up, and how he has to swallow a few more times than usual when he eats. He notices how Dean can’t walk as fast or as far as he used to, and how he takes more frequent breaks at work. Castiel doesn’t say anything, though—too afraid of the answer to ask—but he can’t deny it forever and neither can Dean.

Something’s wrong.

It’s been two weeks since they visited Sam and Jess and Dean seems to get worse every day. Castiel tried researching possible illnesses when Dean was at work and he was off, but the internet was so slow that he couldn’t even open Google, so he gave up and took Dean some soup instead since it’s all he’ll eat these days—that, and the occasional piece of bread.

Today, though, Dean packs them a lunch. He doesn’t tell Castiel why, only that they’re going out, and Castiel doesn’t push, overjoyed at the prospect of improvement.

Slowly, Dean takes things out of the pantry as Castiel watches, spreading peanut butter and grape jelly onto two pieces of bread before sandwiching them together and making another.

“Do you even want PB and J?” Castiel asks, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. Dean’s eyes flick up to meet his, but he doesn’t answer, continuing to make the other sandwich—which will almost definitely go untouched if Castiel doesn’t eat it—before packing them into separate sandwich bags and grabbing two bottles of water. Castiel sighs but doesn’t force the issue, choosing instead to package up some carrot sticks and dip since Dean seems so intent on eating wherever it is he’s taking him.

“Get your shoes on, my love,” Dean murmurs as he packs up their food into a small bag. “We’re going for a picnic.”

Castiel does as he’s told and slips into his sneakers. He takes the bag from Dean so he can slip his feet into a pair of sandals, then pushes open the squeaky screen door with a smile. The squeak doesn’t bother him anymore; it reminds him of Dean, now—the way the sound reminds Dean of home.

Dean drives them to the other end of the island where they had their first date, taking the turns slowly and stopping fully at every stop sign. Castiel only barely notices—too busy enjoying the music playing over the radio and the cool breeze blowing in through the open windows. It’s a beautiful day—the sun is shining and it’s not too hot—and the tourists are starting to trickle back to the mainland as the first day of school approaches. Castiel smiles at the thought.

Dean parks in the same spot he did the first time, but he doesn’t get out right away, holding the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes shut tight as he focuses on breathing deeply.

“You alright?” Castiel asks, rubbing his hand over Dean’s back. 

Dean clears his throat and looks out the windshield, but Castiel knows he’s not really seeing the trees beyond. A weight settles in the pit of his stomach and he opens his mouth to ask Dean what’s wrong, but Dean speaks first. “Yeah, I’m good.” He smiles over at Castiel, his eyes taking in every inch of his face. “Just a little tired.”

Before Castiel can question him, he climbs out of the car, using both hands and a tight grip on the door to pull himself up and out. After a moment, Castiel follows, their bag of food held tight in his hand, but he’s no longer hungry, his stomach sick with something he can’t name as they wander toward the edge of the trees.

Instead of his hand, Dean takes Castiel’s arm, holding on tightly as they step over stumps and logs. Dean’s not nearly as agile as he was when they met—needing to go more slowly and rest more often—but today is the worst it’s been. Dean’s sweating and shaking before they make it twenty yards, his breaths coming in harsh pants as he pushes himself harder.

“Dean, I think maybe we should—”

“No,” Dean interrupts, stepping over a log. His foot catches and he stumbles, but Castiel drags him back up.

“Seriously, your—” 

He’s cut off once again, but this time, it’s by Dean’s coughing. He doubles over as he’s wracked by cough after cough, shaking his whole body. 

It all happens so fast.

He was fine. Dean was _ fine_.

He stumbles again, hitting the ground _ hard _ as his coughing continues and he plants his hands in the dirt—holding on until it’s over. One elbow dips and Castiel’s down on the ground beside him, holding him up as his heart thunders in his chest and panic swells inside him. 

“Fuck,” Dean whispers.

Castiel sees it, then—the blood coating Dean’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, staring at the dark red as it slides over his fingers and drips into the dirt.

“Dean?” Castiel can’t stop looking at the smear—his eyes are glued to it. It’s what sets it all loose in him—all the terror he’s felt for _months_. He pulls out his phone and calls an ambulance as Dean starts coughing again. Every hope he has in his heart is shattering because something’s _wrong _and Dean keeps saying it—_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_—over and over like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. 

Castiel doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t know how.

Castiel can count on one hand how many times he’s been in this hospital. When his mom died and they brought them here to wait for their dad while he sobered up and realized his kids were missing, when Gabriel broke his arm trying to climb the fence of one of the tourist houses to get in their swimming pool, when Dean got sick, and _ now_. He hated it every time and he doesn’t think that will ever change. 

Hospitals are filled with _ loss _and Castiel can’t even begin to think about what that might mean for him and Dean.

Castiel paces outside of Dean’s room, waiting for the doctors to be finished with their tests. He’s getting answers—Dean can’t deny it anymore because Castiel _knows_. Something’s very, _very _wrong with Dean and he knows _Dean _knows what it is.

He practically barrels into the doctor when he opens the door and just barely manages an apology as he closes it behind him before turning to stare at Dean, who stares back.

“Well?” Castiel says, taking a seat in the chair beside Dean’s bed. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whispers, and his voice is so broken, so shattered, that Castiel hardly recognizes it as Dean’s. Castiel takes his hand and holds it between both of his, but Dean pulls away to run his fingers through his hair and rub the back of his neck. “I—” Tears well in his eyes and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Castiel can feel tears pricking in his own eyes even as he fights like hell to hold them back. He clenches his jaw and grinds his molars as he digs his nails into his palms hard enough to break the skin.

“It’s bad, baby,” Dean whispers. Castiel looks down at his hands, biting his bottom lip as he nods. He knows—he’s known for a while—and something opens up in his chest—a swelling chasm that leaves him hollow. He knows, but it hurts to know for sure.

“Bad, like…?”

“Cancer.” Dean drops the word like a bomb, and it explodes between them, leaving the room silent and void of air. Castiel chokes but makes no other sound. His fingers tremble… his bottom lip quivers… he looks at his hands.

“Cancer,” Castiel repeats after what feels like forever. He knows it’s bad, but the word isn’t connecting in his mind—he’s not getting it, though he knows there’s not much to get. Dean has _ cancer_.

“Yeah.” This time it’s Dean who takes Castiel’s hand, and he lets him. 

“How bad?” Castiel can feel himself closing off—shock setting in—but he looks up at Dean, meets his eyes. He needs to know.

“It’s everywhere.” He shakes his head on a bitter laugh. “_ Everywhere_.” Another, harsher laugh. “Go big or go home, am I right?”

“Shut up,” Castiel breathes as the first tear slips free. He swipes at it angrily and sniffles as he clutches Dean’s hand. “God, you idiot. How long have you known?” Castiel meets his eyes head-on, and he sees the answer there. He’s known all along—he’s been _ dying _since the day they met. “You fucking bastard,” he snarls, but there’s no venom in it.

Castiel knows Dean, though—knows he wouldn’t put him through the pain of losing him if he didn’t think there was a chance he would survive, but right now when there _is _no chance, Castiel needs to take his anger out on _someone_, and Dean seems like the most obvious target.

“You fucking knew, and you didn’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as more tears fall. His stomach twists dangerously, but he swallows it back—takes Dean’s hand again. “Why’d you really come here?” He doesn’t want to think that Dean lied to him about knowing Gabriel—that he used Gabriel as a cover for the truth.

Dean breathes deeply, though it sounds pained, and stares up at the ceiling. “I didn’t lie to you about Gabriel—I don’t want you to think that. What I told you is true, but it was more of a coincidence that he’s from this island and has connections here.” He shrugs, his bony shoulders jerking up around his ears. 

With a deep, shuddering breath, he continues, and Castiel can’t help but feel like he’s being cheated; he hasn’t had enough time—he doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough—but _ this_? This is so much sooner than he could’ve ever imagined losing Dean. 

“This hospital…” Dean gestures vaguely at the walls. “It was the only place willing to try this treatment I’d found while researching. Something about island laws. I don’t know, they can get away with more experimental treatments, maybe—things hospitals wouldn’t normally get approval for. This treatment... it, uh—it had a seventy-six percent success rate with cancers like mine, and I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I thought, _maybe_. But by the time they started…”

“It was already too late,” Castiel finishes for him. Dean only nods as more tears fall. “How long?” Castiel’s voice breaks on the question—he swallows hard once… twice. 

All the air in Dean’s lungs seems to leave him at once in a gust of air. “Last week they gave me nine months. Today…” He scrubs a hand over his mouth and looks down at his hands. “Five.”

“Months?”

“Weeks.”

Castiel feels his heart splinter, shattering in his chest and tearing up his insides as the reality of their situation hits him full-force. He’s going to lose him. He’s going to _ lose _ him in just five short weeks and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat and he closes his eyes, trying to come to terms with the fact that one day—one day _ soon_—he won’t hear Dean’s laugh again, or see that stupid fucking smirk. He’ll never feel his strong arms around him again or hear that Dean loves him. 

One day, not too long from now, Dean is going to die and Castiel won’t survive it.

“Take me home, Cas. Please, I want to go home.”

Thunder rumbles in the dark as lightning flashes in the sky, but Dean and Castiel are safe and warm, watching through the open french doors as the world outside is ripped apart. They stay tucked in each other’s arms, dreading the day that’s coming when they, too, will be torn apart.


	14. No More Memories

**Time After: 4 months, 2 days**

The hard plastic chairs are just about as comfortable as one would expect, and Castiel wiggles, trying to get settled without much luck. Dean sits beside him, quiet and still—seeming to have found a comfortable position. Castiel’s cards are gone, taken by one of the gentlemen in blue, and he wishes for them now. He wants to finish their game. He wants Dean to look at him. He wants to be free.

Someone is yelling on the other side of the heavy wooden door, but he can’t make out the words. They’re angry, though—he knows that much, anyway. They sit there for what seems like forever and Castiel tries his hardest to ignore the way the shadows shift and swell, lunging out before retreating back. He tries his best to ignore the sounds.

Eventually, the door opens and the lady in blue with the flat brown waves and nice smile hurries out. Her smile is soft and delicate, and she bends forward, tucking her hands between her knees as she looks at Castiel. “Okay, sweetheart. Time to come with me.”

He scowls at her, but she’s already turned away, so he follows as she leads him through the winding halls. He thinks that maybe she’s taking him somewhere new—somewhere different—but when she finally stops, he’s inside his room and the door is swung firmly shut behind him. His heart sinks—he doesn’t want to be in here. He wants to be out in the garden with Dean, to be playing games with _Dean_. Where is _Dean_?

He stands at the door with his nose pressed against the tiny window, so close that the wire grid blurs and shifts in front of his eyes. There’s no one there, but voices carry down the hall—angry voices—and he can _ just _ make out the words.

“…Said he was getting better but failed to mention that he’s talking to a fucking _ ghost_!”

“Mr. Novak, we were never informed—”

“He’s fucking spiraling and no one noticed—”

“—That this… _Dean _was the catalyst for Castiel’s mental break.”

“—And you were saying he was better! He’s not better!”

Castiel wonders who they’re talking about. He wonders if maybe they’re talking about him.

The lady in blue jumps back when she opens the door, her smile is hesitant as he takes a step back. She’s holding a bowl of something steamy and Castiel knows it’s for him, but he’s not hungry. He wants to see Dean, but Dean doesn’t come, and as the steam slowly disappears from the bowl, the dark shadows shifting at the edges of his vision morph into more solid shapes, shooting past almost too fast to see. They keep him on edge for hours until all he can do is move to the barred window that faces the grounds. It’s dark now, the sun having sunk below the horizon some time ago, but he doesn’t care. It’s better than staring at the four walls of his safety cell.

He can hear Gabriel in the hall—his harsh words rip through him until all he can do is close his eyes tight and grind his teeth.

_ He’s still fucking crazy and you didn’t fucking notice? _

The words ring in his ears.

_ He’s still fucking crazy. _

Castiel knows he’s not crazy—he _ knows_—and that’s what he tells himself. _ I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy. _

“I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” he whispers under his breath, even as he startles when something shoots past him out of the corner of his vision. Even as he thinks he hears someone screaming—high and steady. Even as his head pounds so hard that it might just explode.

Even as he thinks that maybe… maybe Dean’s not real?

“I’m not crazy,” he says, more firmly this time.

He jumps when hands wrap around his forearms, pulling at him where he holds tight to the bars. “I’m not crazy!” he shouts, lashing out at the grabbing hands as anger flares hotly inside him. The hands leave him, and he turns back to the window, his chest aching with loneliness, but Dean doesn’t show. He waits and waits as the night grows steadily darker.

After who knows how long, he moves away, lying on the thin mattress, the blanket bunched at his feet. He faces the wall, not bothering to try to sleep; he knows the nightmares will come—as they always do—and he’s just too tired to fight. 

**Time Left: 1 month, 6 days**

Dean is already awake when Castiel opens his eyes the next morning. The air around them is cold and damp, and Castiel moves to shut the doors.

“Don’t,” Dean croaks, resting a hand on Castiel’s arm. Castiel stops, sinking back down onto the bed, and looks over his shoulder at Dean. “Please… leave them open.” Dean’s eyes are wide and pleading, and Castiel lies back down beside him.

“You’ll get sick,” Castiel protests, even as he snuggles deeper into the pillows.

“I’m already sick.”

“Not what I meant, and you know it.” Castiel nudges him softly, careful not to be too rough, but Dean only smiles and rests his forehead against Castiel’s. 

Castiel feels all the love he has for Dean, swell up inside him to sit right on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t feel the need to hold the words back anymore. In fact, he wants to shout it out to the world because he’s going to lose him… he’s going to _ lose _him.

And he loves him.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, and Dean’s eyes open slowly, only inches from Castiel’s. The prettiest green Castiel’s ever seen stares back at him and all he wants to do is tell him exactly how he feels. “You know I love you, right?”

The smile that lights up Dean’s face is worth anything—_everything_. “Yeah, angel. I know.”

“Good,” Castiel breathes, closing his eyes and taking Dean’s hand in his. He threads their fingers together and holds them to his heart as the closest thing he’s ever felt to pure happiness washes over him. He doesn’t ever want it to end, though he knows it will, so he sinks into it as deeply as he can and lets himself believe that this can last forever—at least, for now, he lets himself hope.

Dean chuckles as Castiel drifts off to sleep once again. 

He’s woken again not too long after by the rumbling of his stomach and Dean nudging his shoulder. “Cas,” Dean hisses. “Cas, go eat something before you wake the whole fucking island.”

“It’s, like, _noon_, Dean; the only ones still sleeping are _us_.” Castiel doesn’t even open his eyes when he speaks, but he _is _hungry. Maybe he’ll make a sandwich. Maybe he’ll make Dean one, too. The knot that’s been twisting his stomach since yesterday gives a sharp tug, and his eyes snap open to look at Dean as an ache pulses in his chest with every beat of his heart. He looks Dean over and sees the exhaustion—the pain—but he looks the same as always, otherwise, and something in Castiel’s chest eases if only a little. His eyes close again.

“You want something?” he murmurs into the pillow before stretching his arms high above his head, groaning as he points his toes and trembles.

Dean hesitates, his mouth parted as he searches the space between himself and Castiel. “I, um…” He swallows thickly and Castiel’s heart sinks again. “I don’t feel real well, Cas,” he whispers, meeting his eyes. “Not sure I could keep anything down.”

“Toast?” Castiel says hopefully. He knows it’s a longshot, but keeping Dean fed will keep him _alive_, and that’s all Castiel wants. Well, alive and _healthy_.

“I’ll try it,” Dean says and Castiel knows he’s humoring him, but if it gets him eating, Castiel doesn’t care.

Castiel doesn’t waste any time, preparing himself a PB and J and Dean some toast before he crawls back into bed, resting against the headboard with Dean’s head on his chest. He watches as Dean takes small bites, chewing slowly before struggling to swallow, but he manages. Castiel can see the effort it takes and it’s no wonder Dean’s exhausted all the time—just eating half a slice of toast has him ready to pass out.

Castiel doesn’t even remember eating his sandwich, too busy making sure Dean doesn’t choke on his own food to even taste it. Dean manages to eat most of his toast and Castiel smiles at him, running his fingers through the soft strands of his hair as they watch the waves lap at the damp sand outside the doors. The fog is fading into an overcast day, but it’s nice and cool, so Castiel doesn’t mind.

“Can we go to the café?” Dean asks out of nowhere, tilting his head back to look up at Castiel.

“Really?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. He would’ve thought Dean was ready for a nap.

“I want to see everyone.” He lifts his shoulder in a shrug and blinks up at him, his eyelashes long and curling as ever.

“Okay,” Castiel whispers as he bends forward, kissing Dean’s forehead and closing his eyes as his chest tightens. “Okay.”

“Just tell me if you need a break,” Castiel says for the fourth time as they walk up the hill to the café. 

Dean shoots him a glare, panting hard as he digs his fingers into Castiel’s arm. “_Thank you_, but I’m _fine_.” Castiel knows he’s hovering—fretting over every wince Dean makes, asking if he’s hurting and getting a snippy reply like, “_no shit, dumbass. I’ve been hurting for months._” He knows he’s overthinking it all, but he can’t help it.

They finally make it to the café and he can actually _ feel _Dean’s relief—he sags against Castiel’s side and lays his head on his shoulder—as they push through the back door.

The conversation in the kitchen stops abruptly when they walk in, and Charlie hurries over to Dean’s side.

“Oh, my God! What happened to you?” she shrieks as both hands go to Dean’s cheeks, turning his head back and forth as she examines him.

He swats her hands away and steps closer to Castiel—leaning into him, more like. “Never mind—take me home,” Dean says, but Castiel knows he’s joking as Dean tugs him farther into the café.

“Seriously,” Hannah adds, her worried eyes scanning him from head to toe. “Is everything alright?”

Castiel’s throat closes up as he looks at the floor, not willing to be the one to say—not sure he’s even _ able _to say it. If he says it, he accepts it, and he’s not sure he does, yet—not sure he ever will.

Dean doesn’t speak for a moment, either, as they push through the kitchen doors into the café. He stops at the counter, looks around at all the people, and he starts to cry. 

Silent tears roll down Dean’s cheeks as he watches everyone they know going about their day. Castiel watches him closely but doesn’t interfere, knowing he needs his space more than he needs comfort right now. Dean swipes at the tears trailing down his cheeks before anyone else notices, blinking back the moisture in his eyes as he tries to give Castiel a smile. It’s shaky, at best, but Castiel appreciates the effort.

“Tell me what you need,” Castiel whispers in Dean’s ear, close enough to smell the faint scent of cherry and leather he always associates with Dean.

“I don’t want them to know,” he whispers back, before looking at Castiel. “Not yet.” 

Castiel nods—he can give Dean that. 

“And I want to bake a pie. Pecan, I think.” He gives a short nod as he looks out into the crowd.

Both Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up as his head shoots back on his neck. “You want to _bake_? You—_Dean Winchester_—want to bake?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers almost wistfully. He gives him another nod and Castiel smiles.

“Okay, then.” He nods toward the kitchen and leads the way, Dean walking slowly behind with one hand clutched in Castiel’s shirt.

Suddenly, Castiel wants to do _ everything _with Dean before that time comes—he wants to experience everything he hasn’t with him. Take all the memories he can before he can’t have any more. So, he takes Dean through making a pie—step by step. They start with the pastry, adding the ingredients one by one, before mixing the filling. It’s a long process, with Dean being so inexperienced, but they manage. 

Charlie and Hannah poke their heads in occasionally, asking too many questions that never get answered, and all the while Castiel can feel preemptive grief swelling in his chest for all the times like this he’ll never get—for all the memories they have to lose.

“Like this—good. Then you just want to scrape out the bowl… uh-huh,” Castiel instructs, one hand holding the bowl while the other guides Dean’s arm. He glances at Dean’s face and smiles at the pink tip of his tongue he can see sticking out the side of his mouth.

Without warning, Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek, letting his lips linger as Dean turns his face into Castiel’s kiss—both are completely oblivious to the peeking eyes through the kitchen doors.

They take the pie to the beach, per Dean’s request, and sit in the sand. The day has turned hot and sunny, but Dean doesn’t seem too bothered by it so Castiel’s worry fades a little as they lower themselves into the sand with two forks and the pie between them.

“Mmm,” Dean moans with his first bite of pie, sucking the excess sugar from the tines of the fork and chewing slowly. Castiel watches every move, smiling as Dean finds pleasure in food for the first time in months. It’s a relief, actually—it’s only pie, but at least he’s eating _ something_.

Bite after bite, Castiel’s worry fades until they’re chatting quietly, their heads bent together as they offer each other forkfuls of warm pie before wiping away filling with the tips of fingers. Castiel relaxes as color comes back into Dean’s face—his wide, playful smile reappears—and something like hope tries to weasel its way into Castiel’s heart. He knows it’s the stupidest thing for him to do, but he can’t help it. Dean’s still here—the Dean he knows isn’t _gone_—he’s right _here_. Sitting beside him, teasing the hell out of him, telling him he loves him… his Dean is _right here_.

When the pie is gone and their stomachs are full, Dean rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder and closes his eyes, breathing in the warm, salty air as the ocean sprays their faces and dapples their skin with a thin mist.

“We should get married,” Dean says, out of the blue, startling Castiel so much that he doesn’t react right away. “You should marry me.”

“I should… what?”

“Marry me,” Dean says again, lifting his head from Castiel’s shoulder and staring him down with wide, excited eyes. “Yeah, we should get married—right here.” His finger stabs the sand by his hip and he grins at Castiel. “Will you?”

Castiel can’t help it—a smile tugs at his lips—because this is everything he’s ever wanted. He _wants _to marry Dean, so why shouldn’t he? Sure, he’ll be widowed in just over a month, but why shouldn’t he marry the man he loves _anyway_? He shouldn’t—he _knows _he shouldn’t—it’ll kill him to lose his husband, but Dean’s death is going to kill him no matter what, married or not, so _why not_?

He takes a deep, steadying breath and locks eyes with Dean as he nods. “Okay,” he whispers, feeling the warmth of tentative excitement flow through him.

“Yeah?” Dean’s whole face brightens as he leans in.

“Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

Before he knows what’s happened or that it’s happening, Dean’s lips are on his, kissing him passionately as one hand threads through his hair and keeps him close. 

When Dean pulls away, resting their foreheads together, he smiles and whispers, “Good,” before kissing Castiel again—slow, now, like they have all the time in the world.


	15. In My Time Of Dying

**Time After: 4 months, 1 week, 4 days**

Sometimes, it feels like he’s burning from the inside out, and no matter how much he screams, nobody comes to put out the fire. He doesn’t know how much more he can take—there’s gotta be a breaking point, and he thinks, maybe… maybe he’s reached it.

One night, as Castiel lies awake in his dark, dark room—his body weighed down by exhaustion, but unable to sleep for fear of the shadows that creep on the edges of his vision finally coming for him—there’s a _ tap-tap-tap _on his door.

At first, he ignores it, putting it down to the monsters inside his head that claw and rip and tear, tormenting him day and night, but the longer he listens, the more he notices how the shadows part, then recede, before they’re gone entirely, leaving his room in a halo of light. Castiel drags his heavy limbs from the bed and shuffles to the door. When he peeks out the tiny window, a small smile lights him up because, there, on the other side of his door, is Dean.

He stands with one hand in his pocket, the other pressed against the door as he taps. Castiel rattles the doorknob, but it doesn’t open, and he scowls at it, trying to think through the cotton balls but getting exactly nowhere. Without him really knowing how, the door swings open and there’s Dean with his lopsided smirk and his messy hair, holding out his hand for Castiel to take. He does, letting Dean lead him through the halls.

The world around them is dark—the kind of dark that creeps in, in the dead of night—and silent as if they’re the only two people in the world. Their steps are soundless—Dean’s are almost weightless—as they move from hall to hall until Castiel finds himself standing in front of the piano in the room of many windows.

He smiles a real smile for the first time in what feels like years—his cheeks ache with it, heart flutters from it—as Dean guides him to sit. 

“I don’t know how to play,” Castiel whispers, looking over his shoulder and up into Dean’s eyes. His face is cast in shadows, but he’s not afraid of these. They morph Dean’s face into something foreign—something not quite human—but Dean’s smile is still so soft and clear that nothing in the world could make Castiel fear him.

“Hmm… have a little faith, angel,” Dean smirks, brushing his lips over Castiel’s temple as he trails his fingers across his shoulders. 

Castiel stretches his own fingers, flexing and curling before resting them on the ivory keys, finding their smooth surface so calming that he relaxes back into Dean’s chest. Dean lays his hands over Castiel’s, his lips press to the shell of his ear, and for once, Castiel’s hands don’t shake—he doesn’t hear the ringing in his ears or feel the weight of countless sleepless nights dragging him down—all he feels are Dean’s hands and Dean’s lips.

All he hears is music.

It’s soft and shaky at first—hesitant and a little awkward—but he recognizes it, the song striking something inside him that heals all his broken parts. It pulls his mind out of the darkness and thrusts him into the moment, here with Dean and their song.

Dean’s soft, perfect voice sings in his ear for only him to hear, and it's exactly what he needs. Castiel closes his eyes—he breathes for what feels like the first time in a thousand years—and he lets Dean show him how to be alive again. 

“_ I could stay awake just to hear you breathing. Watch you smile while you are sleeping; while you’re far away and dreaming. _ ” Castiel lets Dean lead his fingers over the keys, watching their every move so that maybe—just _ maybe_—he can replicate them when Dean’s not around.

“_I could spend my life in this sweet surrender. I could stay lost in this moment forever. Oh, every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure._” Dean’s voice floats through him like the sweetest syrup, coating him with all his love and soothing the damaged parts. 

“_ I don’t want to close my eyes, I don’t want to fall asleep ’cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thing. ’Cause even when I dream of you, the sweetest dream would never do, I’d still miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thing. _”

Castiel forgets, for a moment, where they are and why he’s here, and all around them, he sees a church with stained-glass windows painting them in a rainbow of colors. He sees the murky yellow poured over Dean’s face and the vibrant red splashed on his hands as they move across the keys. He sees the color of love in his eyes.

“_Lying close to you, feeling your heart beating. And I’m wondering what you’re dreaming; wondering if it’s me you’re seeing._” Castiel glances at Dean with a smile and marvels in the way Dean’s eyes shine back at him as he continues to sing. “_Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we’re together._” Castiel turns back to the keys, feeling Dean’s solid warmth behind him. “_And I just want to stay with you in this moment forever—_”

“Hey, what are you doing?” 

Dean’s voice is gone in an instant and so is the music, leaving Castiel confused and bereft. He searches the room, frantic as his eyes skip over the shapes and shadows, but it’s dark and cold and lonely, only the shouts of the guards and the creeping blackness filling the space.

“How’d you even get out of your room?”

He ignores them as he rests his fingers on the keys and tries to remember which ones Dean pressed, but it’s all a jumbled mess in his head, caught in the fog and confusion until he’s so frustrated and empty that hot tears burn his eyes as the guards drag him back to his room.

“…No way it was left unlocked…”

Castiel sits in the middle of the room, down on the tile.

“…All I’m saying is it’d be impossible for him to let himself out…”

He lies down and stares at the ceiling.

“…You think someone else…”

He tries to fill the hole in his chest.

“…I don’t know—maybe…”

He tries to ignore the shadows.

“…Keep a nightly watch…”

He closes his eyes.

“…Find out how…”

He screams.

**Time Left: 1 month, 4 days**

Castiel watches as Dean shifts on the couch, fidgeting with the blanket covering his lap as he pulls it up to his shoulders. He watches as Dean grumbles before lying down and trying to get comfortable—then sits back up and grumbles some more as he punches the cushion and lies back down. It would be cute if Castiel didn’t know why Dean’s so nervous, but he does. 

Sam’s coming to visit.

Castiel wants nothing more than to be able to take away Dean’s worries, but he knows there’s nothing he can do but be here for him. So he goes to him, lifting his head gently and ignoring the irritated scowl Dean shoots him as he sits on the cushion and lays Dean’s head back in his lap, running his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“I don’t need you babying me,” Dean snaps, but he doesn’t make him stop, either. Instead, he closes his eyes and gets comfortable—turning his head so Castiel’s fingers can smooth from his forehead to the nape of his neck. 

“I know,” Castiel hums as he pulls Dean’s blanket up higher over his shoulder. He smiles softly when Dean sighs, his shoulders losing their tension as Castiel rubs his other hand along Dean’s arm.

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” Dean whispers after a few minutes of silence. Castiel almost doesn’t hear him, but the room is so quiet that he manages.

He thinks for a minute before answering. “No,” he says and bends forward to kiss Dean’s temple. “He’ll have a lot of questions, though.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs like he has the weight of the world pressing down on his chest, and he sort of does. Everything he’s ever wanted—his entire world—is crumbling around him and there’s nothing to be done about it.

“You know he won’t leave, Dean,” Castiel whispers, knowing this is what Dean fears the most. It’s what _ he _would fear the most, too, so he gets it, but it’s still a ridiculous thought.

“You don’t know that,” he whispers, so low Castiel almost doesn’t catch it.

“Yes, I _ do _know,” he asserts, turning Dean’s face up so he can look him in the eye. “And it’s not fair of you to think that of your brother.”

Dean blinks a few times, taken aback before he smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He turns back to face the door, gripping one of Castiel’s knees in his hand as he rests his cheek on his thigh.

There’s a knock on the door—which Sam has taken to doing since the first time he walked in on them—and Castiel shouts for him to come in. A shaggy head of brown hair pokes around the door and Sam glances around until he finds them on the couch. His grin slips when he sees Dean.

“Hey, you alright?” He steps inside and slips off his shoes as Dean pushes himself up from Castiel’s lap with great difficulty. He settles in beside Castiel, pressed tight against his side with the blanket pooled in his lap as he looks anywhere but at Sam before his eyes settle on his folded hands.

“Um…” He clears his throat, coughing a few times as Castiel rubs his back. “I, uh—that’s actually what I want to talk about.” He coughs again, wiping some spit from his lip—they both ignore the pink tinge to it.

Castiel stands, but before he can head to the kitchen like he’d planned, Dean grabs his wrist, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes that seem to say, _ please, don’t go? Please stay with me? _

Castiel smiles reassuringly, “Just getting you some water,” he whispers, and Dean lets him go.

The room is silent when Castiel walks back in with a glass of water in his hand and a painkiller tucked discreetly in the other. He hands both to Dean, who takes them with a grateful smile as Castiel sits back down.

“So,” Sam says, clapping his hands before rubbing them together between his spread legs. He sits in the chair across from them, glancing between them as he waits. “What’s up?”

Castiel and Dean look at each other and a familiar ache starts up in Castiel’s chest. He can see how much Dean doesn’t want to do this—how much he wishes he could just not tell Sam and have everything turn out okay—but they both know he can’t, so Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath, and lets it all out.

“I’m dying, Sammy.”

Sam blinks but doesn’t say anything. A grin slowly starts spreading over his face and he lets out a laugh. “Funny. Seriously, what’s up?”

“Sam…” Dean says, looking at him with all his pain and exhaustion written on his face.

“No,” Sam shakes his head; the smile is still on his face but it’s turning stale—bitter and forced. “No, I don’t believe you. You’re joking.”

Dean sighs and sags back into Castiel’s side. He needs a nap—Castiel can see that as clear as anything—but it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting one any time soon. “It’s true,” he whispers, but Sam’s still shaking his head.

“No—I just found you again.” Tears drip from the corners of his eyes and run down his cheeks—his hair flies everywhere as he shakes his head. 

“Cancer—everywhere, they say. Nothing they can do.” There’s a catch in Dean’s voice as he watches his little brother fall apart. Castiel can see the tears shining in his eyes but he doesn’t know what to do. “I’ve got a little over a month,” he says in a ragged whisper as Castiel wipes a stray tear from his cheek.

“Move in with me,” Sam says out of nowhere, and Castiel’s heart clenches. “On the mainland. Move in with Jess and me and we’ll get you a doctor; one who can cure you.”

Dean sighs and Castiel almost feels guilty for the relief that washes through him when Dean shakes his head. “This was my last shot, Sammy—there’s no curing me anymore.”

But Sam’s not listening. “There’s gotta be _ something_—_someone_—who knows about whatever type of cancer you have. I’ll call in every favor I’m owed, I’ll—”

“Sam!” Dean shouts, cutting him off, and Castiel can see it’s taking all of his strength. “I’m tired, and I’m in pain—no more cures, no more treatments—I just want to stay here with Cas, and you, and all my friends.” He lifts a hand to Castiel’s cheek as he speaks—knowing just how much it hurts Castiel to hear that Dean’s going to die—and offers him comfort. 

Sam doesn’t say anything as his face pinches up and he clenches his jaw tight, his fists flexing in his lap.

“We’re getting married,” Dean offers and Castiel smiles at the words. “Get a hotel and stay here. Spend time with me,” he whispers. Castiel can see the way Sam tries to hold himself together, but he’s crumbling—just like Castiel. The only difference is Sam doesn’t have to stay strong—Sam doesn’t have to hold Dean up like Castiel does.

A few hours later, after Sam leaves and while Dean is taking a nap, Castiel calls his brother. 

The phone doesn’t ring more than twice before Gabriel is shouting down the line. “Just give me, like, _ thirty _seconds!” Then the line goes dead and Castiel drops onto the couch with a sigh. 

Gabriel, of course, knows about everything—well, except for the wedding, which is why Castiel is calling—so he’s been extra gentle with Castiel lately. Castiel appreciates the effort, but it isn’t necessary, and he’s told Gabriel this, but he doesn’t listen.

His phone vibrates in his hand. “Hello?”

“What’s up, buttercup?” Gabriel’s voice comes down the line, and he’s panting. Castiel suddenly doesn’t know where to start.

“Oh. Well, I just—I, uh…”

“Spit it out, Cassie.”

Castiel closes his eyes and decides to just rip off the bandaid—quick and easy. “Dean and I are getting married,” he blurts, cringing immediately after the words leave his mouth.

There’s a pause on the other end, then, “Shoot me straight, okay? That’s... good news, right? Because you’re acting like it’s not.”

“Uh, good news?”

“Asking me or telling me?”

“Telling,” Castiel says, making sure he doesn’t raise his pitch at the end. “I’m excited.” And he is—he’s really excited. Thinking about it now, he realizes that since their _ first date_, all he’s wanted is to _ marry Dean_.

“Well then, that’s awesome! Where are you having it? Oh, I know his great place in Miami—it’s a little pricey, but I can pull a few strings—and I know this awesome band, too. We can have the reception at a club I know, not too far from the beach—”

“Gabe! Gabe, no,” Castiel says, cutting Gabriel off. “We’re getting married here—on the beach in front of my house. It’s what Dean wants.”

“Oh.” That’s all Gabriel says for a long while. “Oh, yeah. I guess I should’ve expected that—sorry.”

Castiel sighs, feeling the weight on his shoulders press down a little harder. “I know you hate it here,” he says. “But I’d really love it if you could come. I’ll understand if you don’t, though.”

“And miss my baby bro’s wedding? Puh-lease, I wouldn’t miss it for the world! Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours, kiddo, I’ll make something work.”

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief and sinks back into the couch. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Don’t mention it,” Gabriel says. “Now, about what you plan on wearing...”

**Time Left: 4 weeks, 1 day**

Castiel watches, every day, as Dean gets sicker, and he knows other people have noticed, too. It’s only a matter of time before he’s bombarded with questions of _ what _ and _ how _ and _ when_.

So, while Dean sleeps, as he does most of the day, Castiel heads to the café.

It’s time for the morning announcements.

He’d told Dean last night that it was time. Dean had thrown a fit, shouting about how _ he _ would decide when it was time for everyone to know, not Castiel. He doesn’t think Dean expected him to yell back, though, telling him he was being selfish and that they had a right to know their friend was dying. It’s so rare that they disagree on anything _ serious _ and Dean was so taken aback by it that he agreed.

Castiel steps into the café and people greet him with a_ hello_ or _good_ _morning_, and he tries to smile at everyone, but it feels forced and hollow as he sits on a barstool and faces the crowd of townies—the people who raised him, some of his best friends.

“Good morning,” he says, forcing a smile as he lists off the daily specials. “Today we’ve got a chocolate-chip-orange muffin for you to... to try, and there’s... there’s uh... a new sandwich.” He pauses, his mind everywhere at once as he fights to hold himself together. “Chicken and cheddar with salsa. Wait—no, sorry. Sorry, that was yesterday’s sandwich. Um…” He searches the store for his _ Specials _sign. “Today... today is roast beef on a croissant with some fancy mustard shit Gabriel bought in France.” He waves his hand, not really caring as his throat tightens and swells.

Tears start to well in his eyes before he has the chance to speak again. “Um…” he whispers before covering his mouth with one hand. He lets out a shuddering breath and looks at the floor. “I, uh… I have some news.” A bitter smile curves his lips as he blinks back tears. He’s always hated this part—the announcements that revolve solely around the happenings in his personal life.

“Well, come on, then—we don’t have all day,” old Mrs. Hester says from the back. 

“Dean and I—”

“—are going steady, we know.” Mrs. Hester butts in again.

He decides to just blurt it out—no lead-up or preamble—he just says it in a rush before he can’t say it at all. “Dean’s dying,” he almost shouts, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “He’s got cancer and he’s… he’s dying,” he finishes on a whisper as sharp stabs of pain—worse now, than ever—shoot through him. Maybe it’s more real, now that everyone knows. Maybe he can’t handle it.

The silence is deafening as he waits for some kind of reaction, but when he opens his eyes, they’re all just staring at him with mixtures of shock and devastation, and he finally bursts into tears. Great, heaving sobs tear from him as Ellen and Pamela wrap their arms around him, cocooning him as he clings to them. He can feel their tears wetting his skin as they cry silently, but he doesn’t care as he holds onto them for dear life.

He shouldn’t have done this—he shouldn’t have told them—because now it’s _ real _ and he can actually _ feel _Dean being torn from him. 

He’s going to lose him and there’s _ nothing _he can do about it.

After what seems like forever, his sobs turn to hiccups before eventually calming down. He feels so tired—so drained—but there’s more to say.

“Five weeks—that’s what the doctor said—so we’re getting married,” he chokes out, before clearing his throat and looking at his feet again. “Anyway, that’s it.” He shrugs and stands, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here. He practically runs for the kitchen and out the back door in his hurry to get back to the safety of his home—back to Dean.

Sometimes Castiel will hover his hand over Dean’s mouth to check if he’s still breathing. He knows he’s overreacting, but the fear that Dean might not be, gets to be so intensely overwhelming that he _ needs _ to check, and when he finds that he still is, he’s relieved. But then he thinks of the time to come when he won’t find him with a pulse—when his chest _ won’t _rise and fall with every breath—and he starts to panic all over again.

Like right now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, counting Dean’s breaths as he tries to ward off a panic attack, counting _ one, two—breathe in—one, two—breathe out—one, two—breathe in, _until the tightness in his chest loosens and his hands don’t shake so bad.

The days seem to be coming and going too fast and Castiel hasn’t figured out how to slow them down yet, but at the same time, they drag. Dean doesn’t do much anymore—too tired to get out of bed most days—and Castiel is too terrified to leave him alone for fear that he’ll come home and find Dean’s _ body _ instead of _ Dean_.

So he stays home and does whatever he can to help Dean through his time of dying. 

Now, he watches as Dean’s eyelashes flutter and his eyes open, staring blankly at the wall behind Castiel as if he’s not even there.

Castiel doesn’t move, sitting stock-still as he watches Dean, noticing the way he seems to focus on every breath—on how hard it is… on how much it hurts—noticing how his fingers tighten rhythmically on the pillow and how his whole body seems to sag with the realization that it’s real… it’s not a nightmare he can wake up from. It’s _ real_.

Neither of them speaks for a minute, too caught up in the horridness of their situation, and neither of them comments on the fact that it’s two in the morning—that this is the third night in a row Dean’s woken up and caught Castiel watching him, unable to sleep.

Dean lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes as Castiel’s heart twists in his chest—thuds hard against his ribs as his stomach flips—but he reaches out a hand, resting it gently against Castiel’s crossed legs. Castiel snatches it up and holds on tight as Dean falls back into an uneasy sleep.

“I can feed myself, for fuck’s sake,” Dean grumbles, even as he lets Castiel spoon-feed him chicken broth. He grumbles and whines as Castiel wipes a dribble from his chin and glares when he tries to hold his head up.

“Then stop fucking spilling in my bed,” Castiel snaps back, shooting Dean a glare of his own, but it’s tinged with concern. He’s just trying to be useful where he feels useless—it makes him feel better to take care of Dean—and he just wishes Dean could see it that way.

“Let me sit at the island, then.”

“You’ll just fall off the stool again,” Castiel retorts, trying to force a smile at the thought, but it was entirely _ not _funny. He had panicked, and Dean had bitched, but in the end, he was fine except for a few bumps and bruises.

“Fuck off, dickhead,” Dean grouches while closing his lips around the spoon Castiel holds up to his mouth.

He leans in and places a kiss on Dean’s cheekbone. “Love you,” he whispers, his heart fluttering at the reluctant smile that tugs at Dean’s lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand at Castiel before meeting his eyes. “I love you, too,” he says more softly, and with all his love in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Castiel parrots, his smile wide as warmth floods his veins. 

Castiel holds up another spoonful of broth, watching absently as Dean takes it in his mouth. He tries to swallow but chokes, coughing up the liquid all over Castiel’s sheets as his whole body jerks. Castiel sets down the bowl and pats his back while holding a cloth to Dean’s mouth. Blood-tainted spittle splatters the cloth and Castiel tries to ignore it—the way it seeps into the white material. _ That’ll be so hard to remove_. He looks away and wipes at Dean’s face when he finally stops coughing.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Dean snatches the cloth from Castiel’s hands and tosses it aside. “I’m going for a shower.” He scoots to the edge of the bed and Castiel backs away.

“Do you want me to—”

“I can fucking shower by myself,” Dean snaps and Castiel flinches at the harsh tone. He knows Dean’s upset—he _ knows _that—but he still clamps his mouth shut and steps away from the sting Dean’s words cause. He watches as Dean takes careful steps to the bathroom, holding onto the walls as he goes. One of Castiel’s old shirts hangs off of one shoulder—made too big by the muscle loss Dean’s suffered—and a pair of old grey track pants, tied tight at the waist, hang off of his hips. 

To look at Dean now, you would hardly recognize him from the larger than life man he was when Castiel met him—he was so strong… so beautiful. Now, he’s frail and _fragile_. Breakable with just a touch. 

He disappears into the bathroom and Castiel cleans up the soup-stained bedsheets, all the while listening carefully as the shower is turned on and the glass door slid open and closed.

He manages to get the blankets in the wash before he hears a crash from the bathroom.

He rushes in, his eyes scanning the room before they lock on Dean, sprawled on the shower floor. Castiel swings open the door and steps under the spray, his heart pounding with fear when he sees the blood. There’s a shampoo bottle on the floor with the lid popped off, and Dean, his knees scratched up and bloody, is crying into his hands.

Castiel kneels beside Dean and pulls him into his arms. He tries to ignore how small Dean feels against him, whispering soothing words in his ear while holding him close as he cries. “I can’t even fucking _ shower _ by myself. I just—just wanted to do one… _one _ thing, Cas. Just _ one _thing by myself—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Castiel whispers, sinking down to sit with his back to the cold tile, Dean sitting between his spread knees, as he holds him to his chest.

“I’m _ useless_!” he sobs, the cuts on his knees turning the water red as he shakes. “I never wanted to be a burden—never wanted you to... to have to…”

“You’re _ not_,” Castiel bites out, his voice harsh with his vehemence. “You are _ not _a burden to me, Dean Winchester. Don’t say that.”

Dean sniffles, “I feel like one.”

Castiel only holds him tighter. “Everything I do, I do because I love you—no other reason.” He presses his lips to Dean’s sopping hair. “Not out of obligation or because I feel like I need to, but because I _ love _you, okay?”

Dean hesitates for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching in Castiel’s shirt. “Okay,” he finally whispers, sniffling softly. “Okay.”

Castiel reaches for the leaking shampoo bottle and pours a little into his palm before massaging it into Dean’s hair. He doesn’t complain this time, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as Castiel rinses away the suds before doing the same with Dean’s conditioner. He smiles, remembering when it had mysteriously ended up there because, apparently, Dean just _ couldn’t comprehend _how Castiel’s hair was so soft without any conditioner.

He soaps him up and rinses him off before helping him stand and step out of the shower. Dean leans heavily against him, putting his whole weight on Castiel as he lowers him onto the closed toilet seat. Castiel grabs a towel and drapes it over Dean’s shoulders before he lowers himself to the bathroom floor to bandage up Dean’s knees. He makes sure to put extra antibacterial cream on them to keep them from getting infected—that’s the last thing they need.

Castiel helps him to his feet, pulling the towel tighter around Dean’s shoulders, before hugging him to his chest. They stand there like that for a while—Dean’s face tucked into Castiel’s neck and Castiel’s nose in Dean’s hair, breathing him in—until Dean’s knees shake with the effort it takes to stand and they move back to the bedroom.

As they lie in bed that night, Dean watches Castiel closely, as if searching for something.

“What?” Castiel asks with a small, half-smile.

“I just…” There’s a hesitation in Dean’s voice as he searches his face. “I’m just—” He looks down at his hands and swallows hard. “I feel like, eventually, you’ll resent me, and… and I just want to say I’m sorry.”

Castiel almost rolls his eyes—almost brushes off Dean’s concerns like they’re nothing—but he stops himself and takes Dean’s hands, instead. “Dean.” He waits until Dean meets his eyes before continuing. “In every version of every life, no matter how many times we had to do this, I’d still choose to do it. No matter how much this _hurts_—” His voice cracks and breaks and he swallows hard as his eyes sting with tears. “No matter what, I’d choose you every time because…” he tips Dean’s chin up when he looks away. “_Because_… I love you, and I’ll _keep _loving you long after you’re gone.”

For the first time in too long, Castiel leans in and kisses Dean, feeling his dry, chapped lips against his own, and still—_still_—it feels like Christmas morning, New Year’s Eve, and his birthday all rolled into one.

**Time Left: 4 weeks**

When Castiel opens his eyes the next morning, he finds Dean sitting at the edge of the bed, struggling to button his shorts.

“Going somewhere?” Castiel asks with a smile as he props his head up on his fist. 

Dean grins over his shoulder and pulls a t-shirt over his head—it catches on his elbow and he struggles for a few seconds before managing to free himself. “Yes, actually, _ we _are.” He slips on his sandals. “Get up and get dressed, baby. I feel good today!” He pushes himself up from the bed, his movements slow and jerking, and makes his way to Castiel’s drawers, pulling out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt for him to wear.

Castiel watches with raised eyebrows and an amused smile. “What? No breakfast in bed?”

“Piss off and get up before I exhaust myself and we have to stay home.” Even as he says it, Castiel can hear the labor in every breath. He jumps out of bed, hurrying to dress before pulling Dean close—much to his annoyance—and kissing him breathless—to his shocked delight. He can’t help it—with Dean feeling better, a spark of hope lights in his chest, and he knows it’s stupid, but _he can’t help it_. He smiles wide and bright as he helps Dean through the bedroom, past the brightly lit kitchen, into the entryway, and out the door. 

“I’m driving,” Castiel says as they approach the Impala, holding out his hand. 

Dean scowls. “No one drives my car, Cas.” He folds his arms across his chest as best he can, but he has to reach out a hand to steady himself on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Oh, please—I practically wipe your ass for you—”

“You do _ not_!” Dean gasps, his jaw dropping in abject horror.

“Not _ yet_,” Castiel corrects, snatching the keys from Dean’s fingers while he’s distracted. “Besides, we don’t want you _ exhausting _yourself with all the doubling back we’ll have to do.”

Dean grumbles something under his breath as Castiel closes the passenger’s side door behind him before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. He can’t help the little grin that pulls up the corners of his mouth.

“Where to?” Castiel asks when he gets the car started and his seatbelt buckled.

“Do you even know how to drive?”

“Of course I know how to drive,” he snarks back, putting the car in reverse and backing out of his driveway to prove his point.

“A muscle car?”

“A what?

“Lord, help me,” Dean says, looking up to the ceiling and crossing himself. “And my Baby,” he says, almost as an afterthought, and Castiel knows he’s not talking about him. 

After a few minor mishaps, they finally make it to Castiel’s old church. Dean had practically _ begged _ him to take him back here, so here they are, facing the stained-glass windows and the heavy wooden doors.

“Come on, then,” Castiel says with a sigh as he gets out of the car, rounding the front to help Dean out, too. 

Bobby’s at the door waiting for them, holding it open as they pass through. He nods at Castiel, who offers him a nod in return as well as a small smile. He’ll have to thank Bobby properly later, probably with a box of assorted donuts—the man sure loves his donuts.

Dean heads straight for the piano and sits down, his fingers stroking the keys almost lovingly as Castiel takes up the leftover space on the bench. Dean’s fingers shake as he takes a deep, steadying breath, the light and color of the stained glass illuminating the floating dust motes and washing over them as Dean begins to play.

It’s slow and fumbling, but Castiel recognizes the haunting tune immediately and he smiles softly as his eyes prickle with tears. He lays his head on Dean’s shoulder and tries to soak up all the comfort he can as he hums along, the notes flowing through him with the love he feels for Dean.

Over and over and over, Dean plays their song until his fingers are so weak, he can’t press the keys anymore. Only then does he stop—resting his head on top of Castiel’s where it still rests on his shoulder.

“We should get married soon,” Dean murmurs and Castiel’s eye clench tight as his heart sinks from the implications. Dean doesn’t have much longer—he knows it—and this is his way of telling Castiel.

He can only nod, his throat closed so tight he can hardly breathe as the hole in his chest widens, threatening to swallow him whole.


	16. Till The End, Baby

**Time After: 4 months, 2 weeks, 5 days**

Day… something… without sleep: the shadows take shapes. 

He sits at the piano, his fingers on the keys, but no sounds reach his ears. He doesn’t know how to play. Dean was supposed to teach him, but he never got the chance.

Dean was supposed to teach him. _ He never got the chance. _

So Castiel sits at the piano, his fingers on the keys, and he doesn’t move. Not all day long—not until they make him stand and lead him back to his room. 

He lies on the cold tile. He stares at the cold ceiling. He feels cold.

Everything is cold.

The doctor is speaking but Castiel doesn’t hear him. He lies in the grass and closes his eyes, his arms spread wide at his sides like maybe this way, he can catch himself when he crumbles. He knows it’s coming—he knows it’s already happened—but still, he lies in the grass.

It tickles his ears, shifting in the breeze that promises rain. The heat promises a storm. Castiel hopes for a storm.

He stares up at the pale grey clouds that seem to darken by the second, but that could just be his own vision, darkening at the edges and pulsing with light. He doesn’t know how long he’s there for, but when the sky finally opens up and he squeezes his eyes shut as the first few droplets hit his face, he knows he hasn’t been there long enough. Something shifts in his chest and a longing so deep and so crushing settles on him, squeezing the air from his lungs as the rain thunders down harder. 

His breaths come faster and faster as tears start to fall, mixed with the rain streaming over his face. He feels the rain, but not the cold—he’s already cold—and so he lies there, his heart heavy and his mind empty. 

He lies there for what feels like hours and it’s still not long enough.

**Time Left: 2 weeks, 4 days**

“Really? _ No one_?” Dean says as his face falls. Castiel shakes his head, feeling just as disappointed as Dean.

They’re getting married _tomorrow_, and no one is available to officiate. “I called everyone I know. All the same answer.” He climbs into bed beside Dean, watching as his frail shoulders sag in defeat.

“How do we get married then?” Dean whispers, more to himself than to Castiel. 

Castiel knows it’s not hard to get ordained online, but the internet in Sandover is so shitty that it’d take six months just to pull up Google, so that’s a no-go.

_ Unless… _

He jumps out of bed and runs from the room to find his phone. He needs to call right away. 

“Hey! Where are you going?” He hears Dean shout from the bedroom, but he doesn’t answer as the phone rings. 

“Hello? Cas?”

“Hey, Sam—”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah, yeah—as much of a pain in the ass as ever.” He smiles as he walks to the far side of the house—it’ll be so much better if he can surprise Dean with this. “Have you left the mainland yet?”

“No, we’re just about to leave the house, though. Why?”

“Listen, I need you to do something for me—well, for _ us_.” He looks back over his shoulder once more—though he knows Dean’s still in bed—before saying in a hurried whisper, “I need you to get ordained…”

**Time Left: 2 weeks, 3 days**

The next day, Dean wakes with a sigh, still upset about not having a minister, but Castiel ignores him, hopping out of bed and gathering Dean’s medications.

“Up you get, sleepyhead. Here,” he says, handing over the colorful assortment of pills and a glass of water.

“Why are we even doing this? It’s not like it’ll be official,” he pouts as he swallows his pills one at a time.

“Oh, did I forget to mention I have a surprise for you?”

“Striptease?” Dean’s eyes shoot to Castiel’s as he sips the water and swallows the pill in his mouth.

Castiel rolls his eyes, smacking lightly at his shoulder as he pulls out the new short-sleeved button-up shirt he bought Dean for the occasion.

“Oh… a shirt… thanks,” Dean says, sounding less than pleased.

“Piss off—it’s not the shirt.” He holds it up, shaking out the wrinkles as he looks at it. “Though it _ is _ a nice shirt and you really _ should _ be thankful that I was nice enough to get you _ something_—”

“Yeah, yeah—thanks for the shirt, asshole.” But he’s grinning as he swallows the last of his pills. “So, what’s the real surprise, then?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” Castiel raises an eyebrow as he sets aside the shirt and pulls out a pair of khaki shorts to go with it. He smiles, thinking of how handsome Dean will look in them.

“Still wish we could do a proper ceremony. You know, with flowers and shit.” Dean shrugs and, for once, Castiel holds off on the teasing. He knows Dean really _ is _upset about the lack of extras, but with such short notice, it was hard to get anything, even with the collective effort of all the townies.

“I know,” Castiel whispers as he slides back into bed beside Dean, cupping his cheek as he kisses him softly. “But I have a surprise for you, so hold onto that.” He gives him one last peck on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. “Sam’s coming over to help you get ready,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll be at Charlie’s.”

Whoever thought it was a good idea not to see your fiancé before the wedding needs a kick in the ass. Seriously. Castiel hates this—he hates not knowing how Dean is doing or if he’s alright, and he hates that Charlie took his phone away without letting him read Dean’s texts. He wants to see him, like, _ now._

“You spend _ literally _every minute of your lives together—you can spend half a day apart,” Charlie snaps as she walks onto the patio of the café where Castiel is sulking.

“Which makes this even _ harder_.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the crashing water below.

“Stop being such a baby and have a drink.” She thrusts a glass of champagne into his hand and adjusts her sundress—its light pink ruffles are spectacular with her fiery red hair.

“Fine,” he bites out, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. 

Charlie blows out a long breath between her teeth and takes the chair beside him, covering one of his hands with both of hers as her voice softens. “I know this is hard for you—especially with the situation you’re in.” His throat tightens as he looks at her, seeing the understanding in her eyes. Sometimes he forgets that she’s lost people, too. “But do you really want to remember your wedding day as you mostly sulking in a corner?”

“No,” he says grudgingly.

“That’s what I thought.” She bounces up from her chair with his hand in hers. “Come on, then, groom-to-be! Let’s go bake your wedding pie!”

The prospect of baking gets him up and moving, and a smile even tugs at his lips as he thinks about what, exactly, he wants to make for Dean.

Castiel spends the better part of an hour fighting off Gabriel’s sneaky hands from stealing the wedding pie. Now, though, they’re sitting at a table in the back corner of the café. Castiel has lost count of how many drinks Gabriel has had but, so far, he’s behaving himself. 

“So, Cassie,” Gabriel says, leaning heavily on the table as his bleary eyes stare into Castiel’s. “The big day! Never thought you’d get married—no offense—but here we are!” His grin grows wider as he takes another sip of his drink.

Castiel can’t help his small smile even as nerves twist his stomach. He distracts himself by pouring some more water in Gabriel’s glass, telling him it’s vodka every time he asks. “I’m glad you could make it,” Castiel says, and he means it.

Gabriel waves him off. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He slumps in his chair, though his eyes stay trained on Castiel’s. “You good?” he asks, suddenly serious, and Castiel looks down at the polished wood of the tabletop.

“I will be, I think,” Castiel says, but really, he has no idea. In some ways, he needs this, but in others, this might just kill him, but he needs to know for sure. 

“Good,” Gabriel says with a nod before tossing back his drink. “Now, let’s talk about _ after _your wedding.” Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows with a smirk.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Down on the beach, where Dean was adamant about having the ceremony, Castiel tilts his face up to the overcast sky as he stands, facing the crashing waves, with his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts that match Dean’s. His light blue button-up flaps in the wind against his skin as he waits for Sam and Dean.

Lily Sunder managed to scrounge up a few dozen roses from her garden—telling him she’ll take one of his home-baked coffee cake’s as payment—which sits in pots along their makeshift aisle, and he can’t wait to see the smile on Dean’s face when he sees them.

“Castiel,” Charlie says, nudging his arm to let him know to turn around before she hits _ play _ on the little stereo she stole from the café. A soft, floating tune starts to play and Castiel’s eyes lock on Dean’s just as he notices the flowers. His grin widens as he walks toward him, every step a little shakier than the last.

His heart pounds with all the love he feels for this man and, despite their circumstances, he wouldn’t change a thing because this… _this _is what he wants. To marry Dean on the beach with their closest friends and family here to witness it.

Dean clutches his bicep when he reaches him, holding tight as Castiel wraps one arm around his waist to keep him up as he stares into Dean’s loving eyes.

“Will this do?” Castiel whispers, their lips barely a breath apart as he smiles at him.

“Thank you,” Dean whispers, but Castiel shakes his head.

“That’s not the surprise.”

When Dean’s eyebrows furrow and a frown tugs at his lips, Castiel nods in Sam’s direction, where he stands in front of the water, waiting to officiate their wedding.

“What? Sam… Sam is—” His mouth falls open as tears well in his eyes. “You got him to…”

“Took five minutes,” Sam offers with a shrug.

The smile on Dean’s face says it all and a rush of warmth floods him as Sam begins the ceremony, but Castiel doesn’t really hear it, too busy watching every emotion that plays across Dean’s face—from happiness, to love, to a mixture of both.

When it’s time to say their vows, they choke up. Castiel holds Dean close, his grip tight around his waist as Dean’s knees tremble. They don’t notice when everyone, including Sam, moves away, giving them privacy.

They can all feel that the moment is too intimate for them—this moment is for Dean and Castiel, alone.

“Go ahead,” Castiel whispers as he strokes his fingers over the small of Dean’s back.

He nods and rests their foreheads together for a moment, closing his eyes as he breathes deep. “Castiel Novak... my angel. I think, from the very first time I saw you, I knew I was fucked—a total goner. I loved you from that moment and hated you for all the moments after.” They both chuckle at that, remembering how they used to be.

“I thought to myself, _ well, fuck, how the hell am I supposed to just die here, now? _ You changed everything for me—gave me hope when I was hopeless—you still do, and I thank God every day for giving me you when I needed something to believe in, and someone to believe in me.” Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose and brings his face closer—so close that their lips brush as he speaks. “I promise to let you take care of me because I know you need to feel needed. I promise to love you when you drive me crazy—because you’re _ crazy_—and to give you something to hold onto, even after I’m gone.” He swallows hard and continues. “I promise to cheer you on for as long as I’m able, and to love you through it all, till the end, baby,” he whispers, nudging Castiel’s nose with his own.

Castiel’s throat constricts as he closes his eyes, tears welling as his bottom lip trembles. This is supposed to be _happy_, but he can’t help the sadness he feels in his heart.

“I hated you, the moment we met—hated that devilish smirk and your cocky attitude. I hated all of it.” He shakes his head with a grin. “And I loved all of it. You were—_are_—exactly what I never knew I needed, and everything I didn’t want at the time, but you _ pushed _me, and I’m so thankful for you.” 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and moves one hand up to the nape of Dean’s neck. “I promise—” He stops, his voice breaking, and clears his throat before pulling Dean closer, still. “I promise to care for you in the days to come—to try and ease your pain—and to love you through it all.” He swallows hard. “I promise to make you smile as often as possible and drive you crazy every chance I get.” He grins and feels a mirroring one against his lips. “To care for you in sickness…” Tears wet his eyes and he doesn’t bother finishing that line—there will be no health. “Until death, do us part—” His voice breaks as the tears finally fall—pain claws at his heart with every breath until his fingers dig into Dean’s skin and he has to consciously release his grip so he doesn’t hurt him.

Dean takes it all in stride, though, as he pulls out the gold band from his pocket. He holds it up in shaky fingers for them both to see. “Come on, then. What do you say?” He grins as a laugh bursts from Castiel, and he slides it onto Castiel’s left ring finger before Castiel does the same for him.

Sam steps forward, a grin on his face as he speaks. “Castiel, you may now kiss the bride.” He snickers as Dean flips him off, but Castiel just shakes his head, smiling fondly as he pulls Dean’s arm back around him. They breathe in and they smile, just looking at each other—soaking up the happiness—before leaning in to seal the deal.

Dean clings to him as their lips meet—their kiss so much more passionate than it’s been in months, but they don’t stop—kissing for all the world to see because Dean is _ his_—officially.

As the waves crash down on the sand with a rhythm like the ocean’s heartbeat, Castiel can feel the change like a living, breathing thing.

After the papers are signed, they head to the café. Castiel watches Dean closely, monitoring for any changes, but besides the usual exhaustion, he seems alright, even stealing a few bites of Castiel’s slice of cherry pie when he sits down beside him to eat it. Their friends and family laugh and chat and dance—Gabriel gets a little too excited, and a little too drunk, and falls off the bar—but Castiel and Dean are happy to sit and watch it all happen. They stay close, talking softly with their heads bent together as the night unfolds around them.

Well, until Charlie and Gabriel decide it’s time for the first dance, that is.

They haul Dean and Castiel to their feet and drag them both to the space where tables have been pushed aside to form a makeshift dance floor. Castiel sighs as he holds Dean up, not bothering with proper form as he leans in and whispers in Dean’s ear. “If you need to sit, tell me.” It’s not a request, but Dean still nods, beyond trying to be stoic about his pain.

Then the music starts and they both grin as their song floats through the space. It’s not Dean’s piano cover, but the original version, instead—not Castiel’s favorite, but it’ll do. Dean presses his cheek to Castiel’s as they sway softly, whispering the words in his ear as Castiel closes his eyes and listens, feeling a flood of warmth flow through him as happiness sparks in his chest.

When the music stops, their friends clap, but they don’t move, standing still in the middle of the dance floor, clinging to each other and the moment that has already passed. Castiel wants it back but he knows it’s gone, so he holds onto Dean as tight as he can without hurting him and tries to soak in this moment—tries to hold onto it for when Dean, too, is gone.

When Dean’s knees start to dip, Castiel leads him back to the table where they sit, holding hands, and Dean lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder as they watch everyone else enjoy themselves.

“Cas,” Dean whispers after a while.

Castiel squeezes his hand under the table. “Yeah, my love?”

“I’m tired.” Castiel pauses, his whole body locking up because he knows what Dean means, and his heart sinks with the implications. “I’m so tired.” He rolls his head so that his forehead rests on Castiel’s shoulder. He breathes deeply.

“I’ll take you home.”

Dean nods, and with great effort, lifts his head from Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel helps him to his feet and they make a quick tour of goodbyes, thanking everyone for their help before Castiel drives them both home.

It’s not much after midnight, but the day has been exhausting, and Castiel helps Dean out of his clothes and into bed before stripping and tossing his own clothes in the corner.

“Mmm… so there _ was _a striptease after all,” Dean murmurs with a grin as he looks Castiel up and down. He only rolls his eyes and turns off the bedside lamp, snuggling into the pillows as he pulls Dean’s back against his chest and wraps his arms around him. Castiel closes his eyes but he’s wide awake, even after the excitement of the day. He knows Dean’s not sleeping, either—he can tell by the uneven way his back moves with every breath. Neither of them speaks, though, and Castiel figures Dean must be dozing off.

“Cas?” Dean whispers into the dark.

“Hmm?” he hums, tucking his nose into Dean’s neck as he waits. Dean doesn’t say anything more, though, and Castiel starts to think he’s talking in his sleep, when fingers graze his thigh under the blankets.

“Can you…” Dean’s words trail off but he’s got Castiel’s interest now. With some effort, he rolls over, facing Castiel without actually looking at him. “It’s, um… it’s our wedding night,” he whispers as his eyes flick up to Castiel’s before looking away.

“Yeah…” Castiel says, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he struggles to understand what Dean’s getting at. 

Dean huffs, annoyed, and scoots closer to Castiel. “Usually, on your wedding night, you have sex.” The words rush from him on a breath and he shrugs. Castiel can’t see it in the dark, but he knows Dean’s blushing.

“Dean…” he sighs, knowing it’s probably not a good idea—he could hurt him and that’s the last thing he wants to do—but how can he possibly turn him down?

“I know, I know, but I just—” He swallows thickly and rests a hand on Castiel’s hip, pulling him closer. “I feel like… I need to feel… fuck,” he huffs, his fingers flexing on Castiel’s hip.

He doesn’t speak, giving Dean time to gather himself and say what he needs to say. It’s hard, though, seeing him struggle like this.

“I need to feel _ sexy _ and _ wanted _ by my husband—at least _ once_.” Dean’s eyes meet his and he can see all his longing and desire in them—all the pain he feels at having lost something they once took so much pleasure in.

“Dean, you _ are _sexy—”

“Pfft.”

“—and I always want you—_always_—but I can’t… what if I hurt you?” Castiel cups Dean’s cheek in one hand and strokes with his thumb.

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?” It’s his greatest fear—being the one that causes Dean pain—and sometimes it’s so overwhelming that it paralyzes him. He can’t move or think or _ breathe _for the fear coursing through him.

“You _ won’t_,” Dean assures him again, and he sounds so certain that Castiel almost believes him.

He hesitates, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, but the need shining in Dean’s eyes is all it takes to convince him that this is what they both need—they need to be close in that way again, at least one more time.

“Okay,” he whispers, nodding as Dean smiles. “But if you feel any pain—even a pinch—you have to tell me. I _ can’t _be the one to hurt you—I can’t.” 

Dean must hear the desperation in Castiel’s voice—must hear the way it would break him if he were to hurt Dean—because he nods without hesitation. “Promise,” he says, and Castiel knows he means it.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling his heart skip in his chest as he presses his lips to Dean’s, kissing him softly—so, _ so _softly—just barely a brush of their lips, but it sends heat rocketing to his core as he moves closer, pressing their bodies together from thigh to chest. Dean’s hand moves around to his back, pulling him closer with the press of his fingers as his other hand grazes his chest. Castiel’s breath catches as he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue past Dean’s open lips and into his mouth.

Dean’s already panting, his semi-hard cock pressed to Castiel’s hip as he grinds against him slowly. He rolls Dean onto his back, doing his best to be gentle as he straddles his waist, being careful to not rest any weight on him. He kisses him soft and slow, cupping his face in both hands as he moves away from his mouth, kissing and licking his way along Dean’s jaw and down the side of his neck.

He can feel the differences in Dean’s body, now—how thin he’s gotten, how his ribs stick out and his collar bone protrudes—but he’s still so, _ so _beautiful to Castiel. He’s like a ray of golden light in Castiel’s darkness and he loves every bit of him.

Castiel makes his way along every sharp ridge and deep hollows of Dean’s body, loving every part of him that Dean has begun to hate. He kisses along each hip bone and down the inside of his thighs, trailing his tongue over the back of Dean’s knees and smiling when he jerks away.

Then he makes his way back up again, stopping to suck Dean’s dick into the back of his throat and relishing in the soft, breathy moan that tumbles from his lips before he continues, swirling his tongue in Dean’s belly button and licking over each of his nipples. He arches his back when Castiel nibbles softly before moving on.

When Dean is so turned on he’s trembling, Castiel rolls him over onto his stomach, having already deemed this the easiest way to do it without hurting him.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Castiel whispers one more time as he coats his fingers in lube and circles Dean’s puckered hole.

“Please… please, just—just…” He doesn’t finish his sentence as Castiel presses in with one finger, thrusting shallowly as Dean shifts his hips, his face pressed into the pillow, and a soft moan escaping his lips. He goes slow, making sure to scissor his fingers and press down on Dean’s prostate—making it as pleasurable as possible—before rolling on a condom and coating himself with an excessive amount of lube. Spreading Dean’s legs with his own, Castiel holds his hips with both hands, tilting them up to get the right angle before gripping his dick in one hand and pressing in slowly. A breathy sigh escapes Dean as Castiel closes his eyes, pleasure crashing over him in waves as he works his way in.

“Oh, fuck… baby, you feel so good,” Castiel chokes out, leaning forward to press his chest to Dean’s back and feeling the slick of sweat coating both their skin.

“Move… come on, Cas.” He rolls his hips and Castiel pulls out, slow and careful, feeling every inch of Dean tightening around him as he presses back in. Heat explodes inside him when he bottoms out again, and Dean grunts, his eyes closing as Castiel presses their cheeks together, every breath mingling as they pant and gasp and moan.

Castiel interlocks their fingers as he sets up a steady rhythm—slow and gentle—taking Dean higher and higher as liquid heat pulses through him. He can feel the pleasure building—sparks zipping through his veins—until he’s trembling all over.

“Cas,” Dean pants, turning his face enough so that their lips brush. “Fuck, _Cas_! Cas, I’m—I’m gonna… gonna come—” Then he does with a strangled cry as he shudders and shakes beneath him, sending Castiel over the edge along with him. Sparks of electricity race through his veins, lighting him up as his hips jerk and stutter.

Castiel trembles all over as he comes down, careful not to rest his entire weight on Dean as he rolls to the side. “Fuck,” he breathes, turning to look at Dean, whose eyes are half-closed as he smiles softly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, taking Castiel’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “Thank you.”

“Hmm…” Castiel hums, leaning forward to kiss Dean before pulling off the condom and flinging it in the general direction of the trash bin. He tugs the blankets over them and pulls Dean’s back into his chest again, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. The room is silent except for their soft breathing and rustling of sheets as Dean tries to get comfortable.

After a while, Dean speaks. “Cas, I don’t think…” He trails off, but Castiel’s heart is already in his throat, choking him with what Dean hasn’t said. “I need to know, Cas. You need to promise me—promise me you’ll be okay—” His voice catches and breaks as tears clog his throat.

Castiel knows he can’t make that promise—there’s too much pain already clawing at his insides to promise anything. Dean’s impending death is like a weight sitting on his chest, steadily growing heavier and heavier, and he knows it’ll crush him—snap his ribs and collapse his lungs—and there’s nothing he can do about it.

But Dean needs to hear the words—needs to feel like he has control of something—and Castiel knows that, so he gives it to him, even though it’s not the truth. “Yeah… I’ll—I… yeah, Dean.” 

Dean lets out a shuddering breath, deflating as Castiel’s words settle some anxiety in him, and Castiel’s grateful for it, even if a whole new pain claws at his heart.

**Time Left: 2 weeks, 2 days**

Castiel lies in bed for as long as he can before getting up to pee. Dean’s usually at least _ awake _ by now, if not moved to the living room, but today he’s asleep well past the rising of the sun. It’s worrying, but Castiel tries to reason that he just needs his rest after the day before. Nothing’s _ really _wrong, he tells himself—he would know if there was. So, he gets up and uses the bathroom, checking on Dean every few minutes as he makes himself an omelet and some plain ol’ scrambled eggs for Dean.

The eggs sit on the island until they’re cold and Castiel has to toss them.

To keep himself from losing his mind, he cleans, starting with the vacuum in hopes that maybe he can annoy Dean awake, but Dean sleeps right through it as Castiel watches from the side of the bed, vacuum roaring.

He checks his pulse—_still there_—and sighs his relief as he turns off the vacuum and goes in search of his dust rag. Getting up on a stool, he cleans every corner and crevice of the house, even going so far as to steam clean the carpets, but still, Dean sleeps. With all the cleaning he can possibly do, _done_, he flops, face-first, onto the bed beside Dean, his arms spread wide—one laid over Dean’s waist—and closes his eyes.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, and Castiel’s eyes snap open.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Gotta pee.”

With a muffled grunt, Castiel pushes himself up and moves to squat in front of Dean’s face. He finds glassy green eyes staring back at him behind knotted and disheveled hair—grown too long in the past few months.

“Come on, then,” Castiel murmurs as he helps Dean sit, then stand, holding his fragile body tight against his side as they slowly make their way into the bathroom.

“Okay, get out,” Dean says with a shooing hand, standing on shaky legs in front of the toilet. 

Castiel snorts. “Oh, please. You’re not making a mess of my perfectly clean bathroom to preserve your dignity.” He holds onto Dean tighter as he bends over to flip up the seat, before looking away. “I won’t look, if that makes you feel any better.”

Dean grumbles under his breath but clutches Castiel’s shoulder. “Fucking newlyweds shouldn’t have to watch each other pee,” he murmurs as he holds his dick in his hands, waiting for the stream.

They wait… and wait… and wait.

“I could sit you down and leave if stage fright’s your issue,” Castiel says with a smirk as he fights to hold back his laughter.

“Fuck off—I ain’t sittin’ down.” 

“Just trying to help.”

“It would _ help _ if you’d _ shut up_,” Dean snaps and Castiel finally loses control as a bark of laughter bursts from him. He slaps his hand over his mouth as Dean glares.

“Sorry, sorry—please continue; you know I’ve got all day.”

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response as he closes his eyes and concentrates, one hand on his dick and the other holding Castiel’s shoulder for balance.

Then he starts to pee… all over the fucking floor.

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” Castiel shouts as he jumps backward, stumbling out of the splatter, but it just keeps coming as he holds onto Dean and Dean continues to pee. “Fucking _ stop_!”

“I _ can’t_! Can’t stop the flow once she’s going!” 

“Then aim for the fucking toilet!”

“Stop pulling me away from it!”

With Dean trying to go one way and Castiel pulling him the other way, they should’ve expected it, but they're still both shocked as shit when they slip, landing flat on their backs and staring up at the ceiling, too horrified to move as the warm liquid coats them both.

“Well, so much for preserving the romance,” Dean says, nudging Castiel with his elbow as he tries for a grin.

“Shut up.”

After getting himself, Dean, and the bathroom cleaned up, Castiel crawls into bed, curling himself around Dean once more. Dean had to take a few extra-strength pain pills after that fall, but they were lucky, since Castiel took the brunt of the impact and Dean mostly landed on him. Castiel lies awake long after Dean has fallen back to sleep and he stares at the ceiling as all his worries and fears threaten to pull him under.

Dean could’ve been really hurt today. Castiel’s not a doctor—he has no idea how to take care of a dying man—what if something like that happens again and they’re not so lucky next time? He was barely able to get Dean off the floor by himself, since Dean was no help at all—almost too weak to lift his own head after a fall like that.

But he can’t just dump him off somewhere—wouldn’t even think of it—because he meant what he said in his vows. _ In sickness and in health, until death do us part. _

He _ meant _ it. He’ll _ always _ mean it.

Dean stirs and Castiel’s head snaps around, his eyes tracking Dean’s every move as he struggles to roll over… struggles to find Castiel in the sheets… struggles to move closer and snuggle in… struggles to get comfortable… struggles to _ breathe_.

He holds on so gently—his hands barely gripping Castiel’s arm as he rests his cheek on his shoulder. Castiel’s heart gives a kick in his chest as the weight of everything he has to lose comes crashing down on him, threatening to drown him in the vastness of it all. 

Suddenly, it’s all too much. The responsibility of keeping Dean alive rests solely on his shoulders and he can’t hold it—doesn’t know how to hold it—because he’s not qualified. He could very well be the one to _kill _Dean because he just _doesn’t_ _know anything_.

He knows he won’t get much sleep tonight, but he tries, and eventually, he does drift off with Dean’s head on his shoulder—his steady heartbeat thumping against his arm.

In the small hours of the night, Castiel wakes and he’s wet. Not the kind of wet from night sweats—Castiel is _ soaked_—and his heart sinks when he realizes why.

He looks at Dean—sound asleep in a world all his own—and tells himself, _ it’s time_… _it’s time_.

**Time Left: 2 weeks, 1 day**

The lady from hospice care has a soft, delicate voice. She doesn’t speak too loud or too fast and explains everything she’s doing as she does it.

Dean hates every minute of it. 

He hates the heart monitor she sets up beside the bed—hates the oxygen mask, the wheelchair parked in the corner, and the IV poking his arm—but he especially hates the catheter and the bag she straps to his leg. It’s all necessary, though, and Dean knows that—knows that Castiel has done all he can—so he doesn’t fuss too much.

Castiel sits with him through all of it, holding his frail hand and asking the questions Dean doesn’t think to ask. He’s there to offer comfort with his words or with a simple touch—like a good husband does—but he’s falling apart inside. He’s crumbling just thinking about what all this means—this is the beginning of the end and Castiel doesn’t know if he’ll survive it.


	17. Take Me Back To The Night We Met

**Time After: 5 months, 6 days**

Castiel doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s slept—since he’s eaten. He doesn’t know and he has no desire to find out. In fact, he doesn’t even lie in his bed anymore, preferring the cold tile over the thin mattress. It’s not like he’ll sleep anyway. He doesn’t trust anything around him to be real anymore. Hallucinations have taken over as waking nightmares and he doesn’t think he can tell up from down, let alone what’s real and what’s not.

He lies on the floor and stares up at the ceiling, trying to ignore his non-reality.

So, when he drags himself up off the floor, it’s not because he hears anything that would lead him to believe someone is on the other side of his door, but rather, more of a pressing weight of another presence.

His limbs feel weighed down by cement as he shuffles to the door, squinting through the darkness to see the hallway on the other side. Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat and a small, almost imperceptible grin twitches his lips. Dean leans against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other and both hands in his pockets. He has a fond look in his eyes as he stares, head cocked and smirk in place, at Castiel. Castiel jiggles the door handle, hoping to find it unlocked, but having no such luck.

He watches with sadness and confusion as Dean turns and walks away, his silhouette fading down the hall until all Castiel can see is darkness. Castiel tries the handle again but still, the door is locked. He rests his forehead against the window and closes his eyes to the black hallway, hoping and praying for something to give.

Then it does.

The haunting sound of the piano drifts down the halls, reaching him, and his whole body sighs. His shoulders sag and his heart settles as he opens his eyes and watches the halls in case Dean returns, but the music plays on. He feels the notes move through his body, seeping into his veins and digging into his bones—soothing his battered soul until all he can do is stand there, waiting and hoping and praying that it never ends.

There are thumping footsteps coming toward him, but he blocks them out, focusing on the music until a face appears in front of his windows before jumping back. He doesn’t hear the words the guard shouts, but he sees the alarm on his face.

Castiel wonders for half a second what could be going on to get the guards up at this hour.

When the song eventually ends, and the guards wander back down the hall, shaking their heads and muttering about the strangeness of this place—pianos that play by themselves—Castiel moves back to the floor, lying flat on his back and staring up at the dark ceiling overhead.

He starts to hum. 

**Time Left: 3 days**

Sam left three days ago, needing to head back to California to sign papers—something to do with his transfer to wherever he’s working on the mainland. Castiel doesn’t really know, he just hopes beyond hope that he’s back before—

He gulps, pushing down the bile that rises in his throat every time that thought tries to creep up in his mind, and looks at Dean who leans heavily into Castiel’s chest as they lie in their bed, eyes closed and breaths shallow even with the oxygen mask on. Castiel holds his frail hands in his own, his thumb stroking over Dean’s wedding band as he tries to see the man he once knew through the shell he’s become.

It’s hard, he won’t lie. Dean is so thin and pale—so weak—that any semblance of the strong, tanned, larger-than-life man he once was, is gone. 

And yet, Castiel loves him more today than he did yesterday, and he’ll love him more tomorrow than he does today—that, he is sure of.

**Time Left: 1 day**

“Dean?” Castiel brushes a hand through Dean’s hair and strokes a thumb over his cheek. “Dean, baby, I need you to wake up.” Every time he has to do this—to wake Dean from his death-like slumber—his heart sits squarely in his throat, where it remains, choking him until Dean’s eyelashes flutter and he opens his eyes to slits. 

“Hmm…” Dean hums, too weak and tired for proper words. 

“Time to eat something,” he says and slides a hand behind Dean’s back to help him sit. Dean winces and flinches the whole way up, panting hard when he finally makes it to the pillows Castiel has rearranged for him to lean against.

“Don’t get why I… I need to e-eat; ’m dying anyway,” he grumbles and Castiel flinches, his heart clenching at the reminder that their time together is almost up. Dean catches his reaction, though, and reaches for Castiel’s hand with his own shaky fingers. “Sorry,” he whispers and gives them an almost imperceptible squeeze.

Castiel just shakes his head and sits down beside him, ignoring the burn in his throat as he holds up the bowl of chicken broth, bringing the spoon to Dean’s lips. He slurps carefully before coughing and choking it back up. Castiel pats his back before offering him another spoonful, which goes down easier than the first.

“Sam says he won’t be able to get back for another few days,” Castiel whispers as he continues feeding Dean.

Dean scowls around his mouthful. “But, Cas—”

“I know,” is all Castiel can say. He can’t bear to hear Dean say it again—to say he probably doesn’t have that long—and Dean knows that.

“Done,” he whispers, turning his head away from the mostly full bowl.

“Just a few more,” Castiel asks, holding up the full spoon. “Please?” But Dean shakes his head, too weak to make any more of a protest than that—his eyes already droop with exhaustion from the effort it took to sit up.

“Tired…” he mumbles as Castiel sighs, setting aside the bowl to help him lie back down. He goes to stand, but Dean speaks before he can leave the room. “Stay with me?” he whispers, his eyes pleading in a way Castiel hasn’t seen yet—in a way that’s entirely too desperate. “Open th-the… doors?” he asks, almost as an afterthought. Castiel hesitates but eventually does, not really seeing what harm it could do at this point.

“Tell me if you get cold,” Castiel says as he crawls in beside Dean, sitting up with his back against the pillows as Dean lies across his chest.

“’M always c-cold,” comes the whispered reply. Castiel doesn’t say anything as a storm moves in outside. The wind is picking up and he can hear the waves crashing against the sandy shore not a hundred yards away. 

They don’t speak for a long time as the rain starts, pounding the sand hard enough to leave tiny holes. Castiel wonders what it would be like—to be the rain, that is. To have such a driving, persistent force: one that breaks down even the tallest mountains. He wonders what it would be like to be able to deteriorate something that was once so strong.

Then, he thinks of Dean’s cancer and how it’s so much like rain.

Castiel hates it.

He hates everything—_everything_—but Dean. He could never hate Dean, not for a moment, because he’s the only thing in his world that could ever make him want to leave this damn island, no matter where it is they’d go.

“Cas?” Dean whispers, startling Castiel out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, my love?”

“I’m s-sorry—”

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” His voice is a rough whisper, already knowing what Dean’s trying to say.

“Let… me,” he insists, gasping softly for each breath, and Castiel can hear the determination in his voice—knows he won’t be ignored—so he swallows hard and braces himself for Dean’s goodbye. “I wish… wish we had m-more time, and ’m sorry.” He takes a breath and tries his best to move closer, even though Castiel can feel the weakness in Dean’s bones. “Thank y-you for… for loving me.” He pauses, his breaths shuddering. “And... and Sammy. Tell ’im... ’m sorry.”

Tears catch in Castiel’s throat and all he can do is bend to press a soft kiss to Dean’s hair. He closes his eyes as the first tears fall, feeling the hollow in his chest like a physical thing. _ It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. _

His mother’s words come to him, then. _ But life’s not fair, baby. Life’s not fair, and no one ever said it would be. Life’s what it is. _

Castiel doesn’t respond with anything more than that kiss, but he knows Dean understands as they watch the lightning touch the ocean and feel the thunder rattle their bones.

They both know what’s coming—of course they do.

Castiel wants to freeze this moment in time—stop the clock and live here with Dean forever—he’s not ready to lose this kind of love. His once-in-a-lifetime love. The love you’re lucky to get _even_ once in a lifetime. But Dean’s suffering—he knows—so he steels himself, taking a deep, steadying breath that does nothing to calm him, and prepares to speak the most difficult words he’ll ever have to say in his life. He almost can’t do it. The words catch on the lump in his throat—threaten to choke him—but he needs to say them. Dean needs to know, so he clears his throat and holds onto Dean for dear life.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, almost too quiet for Dean to hear, but Dean’s head tilts up almost imperceptibly and Castiel knows he’s listening. “Dean, it’s… it’s okay. I’ll be okay.” He swallows hard and blinks back the tears as his heart trembles in his chest—clenches, and quivers. Castiel knows that he’s lying to him, but Dean needs to hear it, to let go. No matter how much Castiel doesn’t want it, he needs _Dean _to be better—alive, or not—so this is a lie he’s willing to tell. “I don’t want you to go—more than anything, I want you to stay—but I know it hurts, like, all the time, and I just want you to know… just know—you can let go. If you need to, you can go.”

Then, all at once, Dean’s whole body sags like the weight of the world has been lifted from him. The air rushes from his lungs as he sinks into Castiel’s side, not saying a word as he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, his steady, shallow breaths whispering across Castiel’s skin.

The tears Castiel had been holding back fall silently now, and he fights the heaviness in his limbs, not wanting to miss even a moment with Dean. 

The wind whips the palm trees on the other side of Castiel’s bedroom doors, and lightning brightens the sky as his heart thunders in time with the waves that crash against the shore. He’s never felt this feeling before—like he wants it to be over but at the same time, he wants to freeze the moment. Dreading and anticipating, all at once. He sinks lower into the mattress and pulls Dean closer, feeling helpless as he listens to the time ticking by with every wave that hits the sand.

_ Crash, crash, crash. _

**Time After: 0 days**

The sun has barely crested the horizon when Castiel’s eyes crack open the next morning and he immediately looks down at where Dean’s head rests on his shoulder.

“Dean?” he whispers, shaking him softly—holding his breath—but Dean doesn’t stir. “Dean, my love? Wake up,” he shakes him harder as something sour turns in his gut. He knows… he knows_. _ “Dean? Come on, wake up.” Tears clog his throat, swelling until his words barely squeak out. “ _ Dean_?” He blinks hard as the first tear falls. 

_ He’s so cold… he was supposed to tell me when he got cold. _

Castiel can’t feel him breathing, either—there’s no rattling inhale, or steady puff of air against his skin with every exhale—and when he checks his pulse, there isn’t one.

“Dean? Hey, wake up…” His heart clenches… twists… and more tears fall. “_ Wake up_!” 

But he doesn’t. 

Of course, he doesn’t.

Castiel knew he wouldn’t.

_ Why did I fall asleep? _

He buries his face in Dean’s neck as the first sob breaks free, ripping his insides to shreds when Dean doesn’t turn his face into him like he usually would. He doesn’t feel the warmth of his skin or the flutter of his pulse—he doesn’t feel anything. _ You knew you wouldn’t. _

It doesn’t matter—he’d hoped he would.


	18. Wherever You Go, You Can Find Me

**Time After: 5 months, 1 week, 6 days**

The four walls of his room are all he really sees now, choosing to stay away from everyone else—everyone who can’t hear it.

The music, that is.

It plays on a loop, one note melting into another in a way that only Dean could ever accomplish. He remembers that now; the way Dean could play the piano like his skills were limitless. Castiel thought they were, anyway.

The music floats through the air like a gentle breeze, simultaneously filling him with calm and a longing so profound it takes his breath away.

He sits in his room, and listens, and waits for Dean to return to him.

He doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t eat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just… listens—listens and waits… and waits… and waits.

He waits, but Dean doesn’t come—not for a long time.

**Time After: 0 days**

It takes a long time for Castiel to call anyone to take Dean—to take _ the body_—away, but he does, eventually, forcing himself to say the words through his tight throat—choking them out in a monotone steadier than he thought he could manage, but he doesn’t cry. He feels nothing, actually—empty.

They come. They take him. He doesn’t feel a thing.

On the phone with Sam. “He’s gone, Sam. Dean’s… he’s gone.” He can’t bring himself to say the word _dead_, but Sam knows—obviously, he knows—and there isn’t much else said after that as Sam loses it and Castiel hangs up. 

He doesn’t cry. 

Standing in the middle of his living room, he scans the empty space where Dean used to be as he fights back the clawing emptiness inside him. There are clothes and dishes and _ mess _ everywhere he looks—remnants of days past. _ Clean. I need to clean. _

He does, almost frantically—getting down on his knees to scrub the hardwood floors, high up on a stool to dust the cobwebs from the corners. In every room—every tiny crack and crevice—he cleans until all traces of _ life _are gone.

**Time After: 1 week, 1 day**

“He was a good man—well-loved by all who knew him…”

Castiel tunes out the droning of the pastor, standing off to the side of Dean’s grave in his stuffy suit, staring at the patchy grass at his feet with his hands crossed in front of him—trying not to lose his mind.

He hasn’t slept in over a week—every time he almost gets there, he’s woken by the thought that Dean… he—he _ died _ when _ Castiel _fell asleep. The nightmares get worse and worse with every nightmare and he doesn’t… he doesn’t know how much more he can take. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the meaningless words being spoken. They didn’t know Dean—not really. Not like he knew him. 

Dean was a pain in the ass. 

So arrogant and egotistical Castiel is honestly surprised he didn’t up and float away with the size of his head. He was so fucking aggravating _ all the time _ and sometimes Castiel could’ve just _ strangled _ him to get him to shut up. Dean thought the sun shone out of his ass and Castiel couldn’t even hold it against him because it _ did_.

Dean was sunshine—pure fucking _ sunshine_—and without him… without him, Castiel is lost in the dark on the edge of a cliff without a fucking _ clue _ where safety is because there _ is _no safety. Not anymore.

His hands are shaking—his whole _ body _ is shaking—even in the heat of the day, he’s cold, and he knows people are watching him, waiting for him to speak, but he can’t. There’s too much to say and not enough words in the English language to do Dean justice, and his throat is closing up as the world starts closing in. Suddenly, he can’t breathe, and everything is building up inside him and he wants to _ scream _but he can’t.

Not here. 

Not now. 

Not yet.

He doesn’t bother looking up at the crowd of people watching him as he spins on his heel, marching away from Dean’s final resting place without a backward glance. He knows where he’s going, and doesn’t, all at the same time. He knows where he _ wants _to be, but nothing can take him there. Not a car or a train or plane. He hops into the Impala, his heart twisting when she rumbles to life and points her toward the other end of the island.

He doesn’t remember the trip there, only that it hurt every time he hit the gas or turned a corner, thinking of all the times he watched Dean do the same thing. He loved watching Dean—he just loved _ Dean_.

The walk through the woods is longer than he remembers without someone’s hand to hold, and he’s panting and sweating by the time he breaks through the trees on the other side. The sun beats down hotly on his face and he strips off his suit jacket, tossing it behind him without really caring where it lands. He rolls up his sleeves and strips off his shoes—pulling his tie loose before rolling up his pant-legs. 

It’s the strangest thing, coming back to a place after losing someone—longing pounds in his chest to reach out for Dean’s hand, which was always there before. 

He thought he’d feel different—like the view wouldn’t be as beautiful and the ocean wouldn’t be so clear, but it _ is _ and somehow that’s worse because everything inside him feels that way. Everything is dark—everything is _ empty_—except for the growing pressure in his lungs and the pressing weight on his chest.

He steps up to the cliff, looks down over the edge—feels the spray of ocean mist on his lips as waves crash against the rock face—and he _ screams_.

As long and loud as he can, he screams, feeling the pain rip him apart as his lungs burn. He hates this—he _ hates _ it. Hates being helpless. Hates knowing there’s _ nothing _he can do to bring Dean back. 

But worst of all, he hates when he forgets. When he hears footsteps behind him and his heart skips a beat before sinking to the ground when he remembers, or when he thinks of something funny and turns to tell Dean, only to find that he’s all alone. 

When he reaches for his hand but finds only empty air.

He screams until his throat is raw and he’s panting, but he doesn’t cry—still, he doesn’t cry. It does nothing to make him feel better, though, so he sinks to the ground and drops his feet over the edge, feeling the breeze on his face and sand beneath his fingers.

He struggles to remember. 

He fights to forget.

**Time After: 1 week, 5 days**

Castiel walks, in a daze, up the steps of his porch, ignoring the scattered coffee mugs and half-finished plates of toast that sit on the dusty little table. He drags his feet, his whole body screaming at him to _lie down_. To _sleep_. But he doesn’t—he _can’t_.

He pulls the screen door open and almost doesn’t notice in his exhaustion. _ Almost_, but he does, and he stops dead in his tracks when he hears it. Or, rather, _ doesn’t _hear it.There’s no squeak—no _ sound-like-home _that Dean loved so much—and Castiel’s heart sinks. His stomach flips and hands shake as he tries not to lose it.

“Gabe,” he calls, his voice too high and trembling as he stands with one hand clutching the door and the other in a tight fist by his side.

“In here!” Gabriel calls, but Castiel can’t move—he’s frozen to the spot as a whole new kind of loss hits him. _ This isn’t Dean’s home anymore. _

“Did you fi—did you do something to the door?” Not fix—this isn’t a _ fix_.

He rounds the corner with a dishtowel in his hands, slinging it over his shoulder as he grins. “Sure did!” He grabs the door and swings it on its silent hinges. “Was getting tired of hearing that god-awful squeak, so I grabbed some WD-40 from under the sink and fixed ’er up.”

Something sharp and bitter twists in his gut and he can’t help the way his voice trembles when he speaks. “_ Fixed_… ’er… up.” His fists clench and unclench as loss floods him. He’ll never get this back. That exact sound—Dean’s _ sound-like-home_—is gone forever. “You _ fixed _’er up.” 

“Yeah…” Gabriel says, his voice uncertain now, and it should be; Castiel is about to lose it in a big way. “Yeah, I’ve been, uh... cleaning. It’s a real fucking mess in here, Cassie—” 

But Castiel isn’t listening anymore. 

“You fucking _ fixed _ it! Did you… did you ever stop to think that maybe it wasn’t _ broken_?” he yells, a bitter taste on his tongue and finally—_finally_—the emptiness breaks inside him and pain like nothing else hits him like a truck. He chokes on it, gasping for breath as Gabriel stares after him in confusion. With unsteady feet, he stumbles away because this is so much _ worse _than nothing. The pain of loss is too sharp—too damaging—and he needs it to stop.

He needs Dean.

But he can’t _ have _ Dean because he’s _ gone_. 

He’s _ dead_.

Somehow, he finds himself sitting in the Impala, the engine rumbling, in front of his old church without any memory of how he got there. It doesn’t matter—he doesn’t care. He’s here and it’s exactly where he needs to be.

He doesn’t run for the doors—doesn’t jump from the car, forgetting the keys in the ignition in his haste—he just walks. Slowly. He takes it all in with wandering eyes and a heavy heart.

This place… it means so much to him for so many reasons—some good, some bad—and he can’t help the way his stomach twists as he ascends the stone steps. The heavy wooden doors loom above him, daring him to enter, but he doesn’t much care for their intimidation anymore and shoves through.

His steps echo on the marble floor, bouncing around the colossal space before reaching his ears, and it’s so _ loud_… so _ empty_. 

The day is cloudy—no light filters through the stained glass—and something inside his chest cracks because the magic—the beautiful light—is _gone_. He tells himself it doesn’t matter—that it means nothing—but it _does_. There’s no splash of color over trembling fingers—no dancing light in bright green eyes. 

He stops when he reaches the aisle and looks past all the pews, up to the pulpit… the crucifix… the dark stained-glass wall. It’s all the same, really, but Castiel feels it like a punch in the gut—a sharp clawing at his insides as everything he once thought light and beautiful, looks dark and dim.

He doesn’t go to the front—there’s nothing up there for him—and instead moves past the aisle to the other side of the pews, toward the piano. It sits exactly the same as the last time he was here, untouched by dust or age.

_ It’s beautiful. _The thought occurs to him somewhere behind all the pain, but it’s a passing thing, and he lowers himself onto the bench, lifting the lid on the keys before resting his fingertips on the smooth ivory.

He can hear the music as clear as anything, echoing off the walls in a haunting tune that sets his heart on fire, but when he tries to play, it comes out all wrong.

_ Wrong, wrong, wrong. _

Either too high or too low—not the right tune. The sound grates his nerves as his frustration mounts, making his fingers tremble and his throat close as tears prick his eyes. It’s _wrong—_all so, _so _wrong. But he tries and tries and _tries _until all he’s doing is slamming the keys and _crying_. For the first time since Dean died, he cries, and it _hurts_.

And, _ God_, he’s so tired. So, so, _ so _tired. 

With every breath bursting from his lungs, he lays his head down on the smooth keys, ignoring the sound that explodes from them when he does. He closes his eyes—squeezes them shut—and tries to will himself to sleep. 

That’s when the shadows come. For the first time since he lost Dean, something feels different because his eyes _ aren’t _ closed. He’s looking at the back wall of the church, the heavy curtains swaying as… as _ shapes _move through them.

He bolts upright on the bench, but by the time he blinks a few times to focus, they’re gone again, leaving him more unsettled and afraid than he’s ever been. _I’m going crazy_, he thinks, because, out of the corner of his eye, something flashes by, dark and wispy. He whips around, but it’s gone. His heart races and he blinks his stinging eyes once more as voices—_whispers_, more like—reach his ears from the dark, dark corners of the church.

Spinning around again, he catches sight of the tail end of… something. He’s not sure what, but he doesn’t want to stick around to find out. With more effort than should be necessary, Castiel pushes off the bench and hurries from the darkening church with a chill in his veins and the very distinct feeling of being watched.

One thing Castiel knows for certain is that he can’t go home. 

He can’t sleep there—not in the place where Dean died—and can hardly be in the room for more than the time it takes to grab clean clothes. And Gabriel will be there. He’ll want to talk about what happened earlier and Castiel just… he can’t. Missing Dean is a physical ache and he already feels like, with every day that passes, more of him is being chipped away.

People are moving on and he _ hates _ it because _ he’ll _ never move on. _ He’ll _never forget him no matter how hard he begs and pleads and cries, he’ll never forget what it was like to share his life with that man—to be held by him... loved by him.

So, he doesn’t go home. He goes to the liquor store, buying the first bottle he touches, then adding another to his basket, before paying and walking out. Without really knowing where he’s going, he drives, his eyes drooping with exhaustion even as his heart races because he _ knows_. He knows what this means for him and he just _ doesn’t care_.

Naturally, he ends up at the café. It’s long after closing time—the sky is dark and starlit, the moon, bright, and almost full—so he has the place to himself. With his whiskey in one hand, he fumbles with his key, dropping it twice before managing to unlock the door. His kitchen is dark—full of shifting shadows as the outside spotlight shines on his back.

Castiel cracks the seal on the first bottle before he even has the door fully closed, taking a long pull, tipping his head back and swallowing it down, before wincing at the acrid burn in his throat.

He does it again.

And again.

Again, until he’s stumbling through his kitchen, dragging ingredients from cupboards and shelves and fridges, dumping them all on his workstation before he even knows what he’s baking.

Pies, apparently.

_Dean’s favorite_, he thinks to himself, _always pie_. 

He takes another swig.

His vision swims and his heart is so sluggish he might pass out but he can still feel the solid weight of loss sitting on his chest, pressing all the air from his lungs—it’s not enough. Not enough alcohol. Not enough pies. Not enough.

_ Apple, cherry, pecan, and pumpkin—it’s not enough. _He finds the ingredients for banana-cream and strawberry-rhubarb.

The empty bottle crashes to the floor at about the same time as the cherry pie. Like blood splattered on the floor—sticky and dark—Castiel just stares, feeling everything and nothing at all as hot filling drips from his fingers, burning them the longer he looks. Something rises up in his throat as he stares down at the pie—Dean’s _ favorite _ pie. It’s dark and sickening and so, _ so _painful that he chokes on it. He gasps and coughs as it claws its way out, ripping his insides to shreds before bursting free in one great and terrible sob.

_ Dean’s pie… how could he drop Dean’s pie? _

Almost without thinking, he pulls out his phone and dials Gabriel’s number, listening absently as it rings and rings.

“God, Cassie! Where are you?” His voice rattles down the line—worried and a little angry—but Castiel hardly hears him.

“I… I messed it up, Gabe. I can’t even,” he sniffles loudly, standing as still as stone, staring down at his mess. “Dean’s _pie_, Gabriel. I _dropped _Dean’s _pie_!” His voice quivers and slurs and he’s not even sure he’s making sense but he’s so far past caring that he continues. “He’ll be so disappointed,” he murmurs as his heart drops. “He really loves pie.”

“Cas, what—what are you doing? Where are you?” There’s a hint of something sharp in his voice—something a little like panic.

“I think… I could just burn it all down. All of it—everything with _ him _in it. Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to live this life, Gabe,” he says, his voice so small he’s not sure if he really says it or not.

“Cas, don’t do anything stupid; I’ll be right there.” There’s a squeak of a chair on the other end and the sound of a door closing. “Have you been drinking?” Yes, definitely panic.

“Maybe I’ll just… learn something new? That’s a good idea, right, Gabe?” He moves, now, heading for the front of the café and out onto the patio, past the gate and to the edge of the cliff. The wind whips his face as he stares over the edge at the crashing waves far below. “Maybe I’ll learn to swim. Right now, I’ll learn to swim—no time like the present, right?”

“Cas, wait—” But he’s already letting his phone fall from his trembling hands and he sinks to his knees, then down farther until he’s sitting with his legs dangling over the cliff’s edge.

“Where are you, Dean?” He whispers to the incoming storm—to the lightning in the distance and the rumbling thunder in the back of his head. “Why did you go away from me?” _ Why did you leave? Where did you go? _

And, suddenly, he’s so spitting mad that he shakes with it—tears streak down his cheeks as he yells into the storm. “Why did you leave?” But, of course, he gets no answer—not even a whispered reply. “How could you do this to me?” Nothing he says or does gets an answer, though.

He thinks he might hear someone calling his name—thinks he might know the voice—but he doesn’t turn to see who it is as his head pounds with exhaustion and alcohol. He just wants to sleep—just wants to escape this life—but still, even now, sleep evades him.

_ “Cas. Cassie, come away from there,” _ the voice says. He doesn’t move as the spray of the crashing waves brushes his bare toes, chilling him to the bone. _ “Jesus Christ… weren’t kidding about burning the place down, were you? Damn pies.” _ The voice is closer, but still, Castiel doesn’t respond—he knows it’s not real. _ Thinks _it’s not real.

_ “Please, come away now.” _Something tugs on his arm and he jerks away with a shout, almost tumbling over the edge but not quite making it. Oh well.

He’s not sure how much longer he sits there, debating whether or not he should just do it—just slip from this world and into the sea—but after a while, there’s a pinprick in his arm. He thinks maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe the exhaustion, but slowly… slowly, he falls into unconsciousness, not knowing that it would be the last time his toes touched the Sandover shore.

It’s all a little hazy…

A little jolty. A little foggy.

Castiel lies in the damp sand on the beach outside his house, drunk, and Dean is beside him, seemingly untouched by the rain, where Castiel is soaked through to the bone.

He knows, somehow, this isn’t real—not the real like he’s used to, anyway—and he reaches out a hand, not expecting to be able to touch.

Dean smiles like Castiel is all he’s ever wanted to see in the world, and now that he has it, he’s anything but disappointed. Castiel’s outstretched hand finds soft, warm skin where he’d expected to find cold sand. Their fingers twine together and hold on tight as the knotted mess of grief unravels in Castiel’s chest.

Castiel turns into him, rolling onto his side to press his face into Dean’s neck. Dean holds him close, his fingers caressing Castiel’s side as he kisses his hair.

“I missed you,” Castiel whispers, though he knows Dean’s not here—not _really_, anyway. This will just have to do for now.

“You know I’m always here—can’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckles, squeezing Castiel’s hand, still clutched tightly in his own.

“When will I see you again?” Castiel whispers, not daring to pull away just yet—not ready for this to end.

“You can always find me. Wherever you go, you can find me.” He pulls Castiel’s face out of his neck, forcing him to meet his eyes as he smiles, whispering softly. “You can find me in the light.”


	19. Death Is Not

**Time After: 5 months, 2 weeks, 5 days**

Sometimes he thinks he might be asleep. Or, at least, in the space between waking and sleeping—it’s hard to tell, though. The shadow monsters lurk at the corners of his vision, but he doesn’t fear them anymore—they’re nothing more than a distraction from the music.

The sweet, _ sweet _ music that no one else seems to hear. It doesn’t matter—_Castiel _ hears. He sinks into every note as the song plays on and on, soothing him enough so that he can close his eyes and maybe—just _ maybe_—see Dean’s face. His real face—in the church with mottled, colorful light, or on the beach with raindrops dripping from his eyes—the one he hasn’t seen in… in ages.

He wants to sleep forever.

He can’t sleep.

_ Why did I fall asleep? _

It echoes in his ears—the sound of his own sorrow playing in tune with the music—tormenting him until he could _ scream _with all the pain and anguish built up inside him.

But he’s so tired.

The lock on his door clicks open and the door swings in as Castiel looks over from his place on the floor. No one enters, but he stands and wanders into the hallway, heedless of any danger as the music grows steadily louder with every step.

His heart leaps when he catches sight of a leather jacket rounding the corner at the end of the hall. _ Could it…? _He follows, stumbling along with one hand brushing the wall for balance, and, as he rounds the corner, there he is again.

This time, it’s the back of Dean’s foot that catches his eye. It’s just a glimpse, but Castiel can feel the tug in his heart as he follows. The music is almost deafening, and growing steadily louder as he moves faster and faster, following his lover through the twisting hallways until, finally, the music stops dead.

He’s in a dark room and there’s no sign of Dean. He looks around, searching every corner and doorway, but… nothing. It’s silent and dark, but when his eyes lock on the medicine cabinet, he doesn’t hesitate. He’s so tired… just so, _ so _tired. 

Rummaging through the shelves of the curiously unlocked cabinet, he finds what he’s looking for and stares at the label of the bottle of sleeping pills for only a moment before wandering back through the hallways as the music starts again, soft, this time.

Castiel opens the bottle as he walks, and pours out a handful of pills. _One won’t be enough_, he thinks and starts out with five. _But the nightmares will come_, so he takes six more, swallowing them back and ignoring the dry ache in his throat as he stumbles into his room. 

_They’re not working_, and he downs the bottle, just wanting to _sleep_. Falling onto his bed for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he lets out a breath that seems to go on forever as his heart slows. He’s alone in his room—all is quiet except for the music, which twists its way around Castiel’s lungs and squeezes.

_ Finally, _ he thinks. _ Finally, some sleep_. 

He blinks once, his eyes growing steadily heavier as the pills take effect. Then he blinks again, and there’s Dean and his sad, _ sad _eyes across the room. They close for the last time as thunder crashes and rain drums outside. 

Huh, he’s never heard the storms outside his window before.

**Time After: 6 months, 1 week, 2 days**

Gabriel clenches his fists at his sides as they lower Castiel into his grave. He can’t do this—Castiel wouldn’t want this. His stomach turns as sharp stabs of pain lance his heart. He knows this isn’t right—he _knows _it—and he _can’t do this. _Swallowing thickly, he grits his teeth and looks up, catching Sam’s eyes before turning on his heel and walking away. He doesn’t care if it looks bad—he just _doesn’t care_—because Castiel wouldn’t want _this_. Not on the mainland—not _here_.

So, he walks away, up the hill and over the other side where he finds a bench facing the ocean. They wouldn’t take Castiel’s body over on the ferry—wouldn’t let him take it anywhere, actually. Not on the ferry, or his boat—not even on his fucking _ helicopter_—so here, in the place Castiel hated the most and away from his love, Castiel will be buried. All because Gabriel thought he knew what was best for him. 

He didn’t have a fucking _ clue_.

_The best of the best, _he was told. _He’ll be back to himself in no time! _Gabriel shakes his head—how could he have listened? Even after all the horrors they’ve both endured on that _fucking island_, his brother never wanted to be anywhere else. How could he not see that the separation, from both Sandover and _Dean_, was what was killing him? God, he feels so stupid now—so foolish.

But he knows why he’d kept Castiel there—of course, he knows. Gabriel _ hates _that place. Hates it for all the reasons Castiel loved it.

Castiel loved that everyone knew his name. There was no fear of anyone leaving him if he only stayed on his island because _no one leaves_. Despite the loss they both suffered _because of _the island, Castiel always felt he was safer there—more at home—both physically and psychologically. He knew his limits and liked to stay well away from them.

Gabriel’s always been the opposite, jumping at any opportunity to escape his past and only coming back for the one person he could never leave behind. 

But didn’t he? Leave him behind, that is? His brother suffered in that mental health facility for a _long _time and he _didn’t notice_. He should’ve noticed—should’ve been there _every day_—since he stole Castiel away from his home. 

Then, to top it all off, he couldn’t even fulfill the only thing his brother's ever requested of him—to make sure he’s buried at _ home_.

He hears the angry footsteps only seconds before Sam is standing in front of him, arms crossed, and a scowl set in place.

“How can you just _walk away_?” he snaps, his tone sharp and cold as Gabriel rolls his eyes. “He’s your _brother_, Gabriel! You can’t just—”

“Oh, please, Samsquatch—you have no fucking clue, do you?” He shakes his head and leans back, looking away from Sam and out at the clear blue ocean—out toward the island he’s hated his whole life—wishing, now more than ever, that they were all there.

“Enlighten me, then,” Sam says, plopping down on the seat beside him and staring hard at the side of Gabriel’s head. 

He flounders for a moment, not sure how to accurately put into words everything there is to say—all the guilt and shame and _ confusion _ he feels. “Cassie was… I don’t know—he was always so attached to the island. Like, a _ physical _ attachment somehow—I don’t get it, really, but he almost never left, and he’d have these… these _ panic attacks _if he did.”

He looks over at Sam, who’s nodding like he’s seen it happen. Gabriel supposes he probably has.

“So, _this_,” he points to the dirt beneath their feet. “I don’t know, man—this doesn’t seem like a time to be sad. Yeah, my brother is dead, which is devastating in itself, but…” he shakes his head, breathing deeply as an ache builds in his chest and clogs his throat. “He’s always struggled... you know, with his mental health—he’s always had to work a little harder at staying balanced after our mom died.” He shrugs half-heartedly. “And he was _suffering_. I only made it worse by keeping him here; not moving him back to the island was the worst thing I could’ve done, but, _fuck_, I didn’t want to go _back_—” His voice catches and he clears his throat.

Sam doesn’t push, waiting patiently for him to collect himself. It’s weird, sitting here with Sam—the brother of the man his own brother loved so dearly. They don’t know each other, really, but they’re forever connected by the deaths of their brothers—by the love their brothers shared.

“I feel like Cassie’s death… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe he’s a coward for refusing to learn to live a life without Dean—away from his home.” He clears his throat and glances at Sam before looking away as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his thoughts swirling round and round in his head. “Or, maybe he’s the bravest of all of us, choosing to take the leap into the unknown for a _ chance _ of happiness on the other side—for the _ hope _of peace.”

Sam hums softly and falls against the backrest of the bench, and Gabriel can practically see his mind working. “There’s no use in trying to figure it out, though.” Gabriel shrugs and falls back beside Sam, sitting shoulder to shoulder in their loss. “Either way, we’ll never really know for sure. I just hope he found whatever it is he went looking for.”


	20. Epilogue - A Place To Call Home

A flash of white, brighter than Castiel’s ever seen, sears his retinas and he blinks furiously through it, holding up his hand as the light starts to dim, and… _there_... yes, that’s something. His eyes fall on large, wooden doors at the top of a set of stone steps. 

Once, he feared this place, but now, somehow in the depths of his mind, he knows it’s the safe place it used to be. 

He can hear the music, after all.

He takes the steps slowly, his feet as light as air as his heart pounds a steady beat in his chest—something’s waiting for him, he just knows it.

Some_one_.

With a press of his palm, the door swings in, creaking on its hinges before coming to rest about halfway open. Castiel steps inside as light streams through dust motes that sparkle like fairy dust.

The music is louder in here and he can’t help the way he sways with the haunting tune. _God_, he loves this song. Loves the man who sings it to him. 

And… and there he is.

As Castiel walks through the sunlit church, his every step echoing on the marble floor, he can feel the music calling to him—he’s _ here_.

With the light of the sun shining through stained glass, Dean’s hands are bathed in a soft, cherry red—his eyes in sunflower yellow and his lips in ocean blue. 

He looks so at home in the light and, as he stops playing and turns back to look at Castiel, a glorious smile on his face—his healthy, _ happy _ face—Castiel _ knows_. 

He takes Dean’s outstretched hand, feeling the smooth, strong fingers beneath his own—as solid as marble—and sits alongside him, feeling, for the first time in a long time, a sense of peace so profound it takes his breath away.

“Do you feel that?” Dean asks, looking down at him with twinkling eyes.

“What?”

“That,” Dean says as he pulls Castiel closer, tucking him into his side. “Do you feel it?” Castiel doesn’t answer, waiting, instead, for Dean to elaborate. “_Home_, Cas,” he whispers into his ear, his soft breath ghosting across his skin. “It feels like _home_.”

And Castiel smiles because, yes... it feels like home and, maybe... maybe that’s what he was looking for all along—just a place to call home.

_ Even in your darkest places, you can find me in the light_.

**Author's Note:**

> ["Find Me In The Light" Artpost by romachebella](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169028)  
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["Find Me In The Light" Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo2e--OYn3xclb2r-EzBAikD8hVb9x0Lq)  
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["Find Me In The Light" Tumblr Post](https://deancasbigbang.tumblr.com/post/189350606881/deancasbigbang-title-find-me-in-the-light)  
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SPOILER TAGS!!  
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Accidental Suicide, Mental health issues requiring hospitalization.
> 
> This story deals with suicide and mental health issues and, because of this, I've included a link to a list of International Suicide Hotline numbers. There's always another choice, and you're never alone. AKF my loves! - [International Suicide Hotlines](https://ibpf.org/resource/list-international-suicide-hotlines)


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